Through Shadows
by Thanwen
Summary: Do you believe in love at first sight? I do not, no matter what the Professor tells us. So here comes my attempt of a plausible and hopefully entertaining story why and how Éowyn and Faramir came to love each other. Classical gap filler; strictly book-verse.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Thistle and Thorn**

* * *

_But Éomer said: "Where is the Lady Éowyn, my sister; for surely she should be lying beside the king, and in no less honour? Where have they bestowed her?"_

_And Imrahil said: "But the Lady Éowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know?"_

_Then hope unlooked for came so suddenly to Éomer's heart, and with it the bite of care and fear renewed, that he said no more, but turned and went swiftly from the hall; and the Prince followed him._

quoted from:_ **The Houses of Healing; The Return of the King; Book Five **_**by J.R.R. Tolkien.**

* * *

**Minas Tirith, 17th March, 3019, Third Age**

"_Fréa, watch your back!" Her voice shrilled over the din of the battle, yet Fréalaf, Squire of the Prince, did not heed it, his attention focussed on the Dunlending trying to assail Prince Théodred from the left. Being engaged in fierce combat with three more attackers, the prince had not noticed the danger yet and but for his squire's alertness the Hillman might have succeeded. _

_Steel clanked, as their swords met, Fréalaf bending low on his horse to intercept the Dunlending's blow. Sweeping his own blade up, the Rider caught his opponent right under the chin, slashing throat and jaw in one strike, just as at his master's command the prince's charger reared, thrashing hooves crushing down on the other Hillman's head and shoulders, leaving but a pulp of mangled flesh and facial bones. _

_Taking on one of the two remaining foes that still assaulted the prince, Fréalaf wedged his horse between the Dunlending and Théodred, thus shielding his lord. He was bringing his sword down in a mighty thrust, aiming at the vulnerable space just below the visor, when the gelding's hind legs gave way, the sinews of one being slashed by a cruel blade. _

_Pulling his feet out of the stirrups and flinging himself off, out of the reach of the convulsing body, was a movement often trained, but just as Fréalaf was trying to gain his feet again, the axe came down on his back, splitting cuirass and bones in a vile thud._

_Unable to move, she stood and watched, her view obscured by shrouds of thickening mist, as Théodred reined his destrier in, to come to his squire's aid, but his movements were strangely decelerated, and even before the whole scene faded into grey before her helpless eyes she knew he would be too late. _

_And then there was only Fréalaf's dead body, lying face down on the cold and empty plain, fog swirling about him, blood oozing from the gaping wound, pooling around his lifeless form, rising like some terrible tide, covering the plain to the horizon._

"_Fréa!" With a sobbing cry she tried to move, to reach him, pull him close, but she as well seemed to be caught in the __eerie heaviness. That__ eerie heaviness, muffling every sound and reducing her pace to that of a swimmer, fighting against a strong current. She stumbled, and sinking to her knees, her outstretched hands sank wrist-deep in the blood._

_Out of the mist, a black shadow congealed, crowned yet faceless, looming before her, a deadly mace in its hands, fear streaming from it like liquid ice, choking her with deadly dread, slowing her heartbeat and causing her blood to freeze. Then, as she felt she would crumple, unable to bear the threatening menace any longer, the terrible form stooped before her, a piercing cry flying from the invisible mouth._

"_Éowyn, Éowyn!" The Halfling's voice cut through her numbness and with a last desperate gathering of her strength she thrust her sword into the gap between hauberk and crown._

The shriek of a female voice brought her to her senses, her gaze catching sight of a young woman in plain grey garb, crouched against a whitewashed wall, an upturned serving tray at her feet amidst some broken crockery and the spilled contents.

"There, my lady, steady." Another woman's voice caught her attention, an even, low-pitched voice, seeming somehow familiar, and turning her head, she noticed a middle-aged woman in the same grey raiment beside her bed.

_Her bed? Why was she in bed? What had happened to her? What was wrong with her left arm?_ Sitting up, she looked about and only then did it dawn on her: Mundburg... the battle on the Pelennor...Théoden King falling…and the evil shadow of the dwimmerlaik coming down out of the sky to devour him.

She shuddered, clutching herself with her uninjured arm, puzzled at the lasting numbness.

"Are you awake, my lady? Do you hear me?" The elder of the two women came closer, intelligent light-brown eyes perusing her face realised she knew the woman. She had been one of the healers who had set her arm… Mareth, she was, senior healer Mareth.

"Yes," Éowyn confirmed, her voice hoarse, "Yes, I am awake now. What happened?"

Helping the younger woman up, the healer just shrugged. "You apparently had a nightmare of some kind and mistook Anwen for something dangerous."

Frowning Éowyn eyed the slim figure that now started to clean up the shards and the spilled food: a girl rather than a woman, certainly not older that sixteen at the most. The veil covering her head, that all female healers wore, had come askew, revealing dark hair, combed back from the delicate face, dominated by large light-grey eyes. Noticing her gaze, the girl blushed. "I wanted to bring you some breakfast, my lady, and I hadn't realized you were in a dream, when I bent over you."

Appraising the distance between her bed and the spot the girl had been crouching, Éowyn addressed her, trying to hide her embarrassment and solicitude under a mask of cool politeness: "I assure you I did not intend to disconcert you. I dreamt of…being attacked. Did I hurt you?"

The young healer shook her head. "No, you just pushed me away."

With a low chuckle, the elder healer rearranged the girl's veil. "Some learn it the hard way. I told you, Dear: Never approach, let alone touch a patient before addressing him first. There are healers who have suffered worse. Anwen, you were lucky, just imagine it had been Grimboern."

The girl blushed profoundly and made to leave the room to discard the mess, only to be stopped by Mareth's low voice. "When you've finished, go and fetch a new breakfast tray from the kitchens."

"No," Éowyn interrupted, "I don't feel hungry. I will tell you if I want any breakfast." She was not letting these healers force anything on her, be it only food.

"Very well then, my lady." Mareth seemed not to be impressed at all by her rebuke. "We'll leave some tea though, just in case you should want to slake your thirst later. Just turn a little to the right now, will you, and let me straighten your sheets."

"I'll get up," Éowyn retorted haughtily. _She was no cripple, nobody would keep her in bed._

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she sat up, clutching the sheets as the sudden dizziness assaulted her. Trying hard not to gag, she forced herself to keep her eyes open, sensing the healer's scrutinizing gaze. After a while the faintness passed, leaving her covered in cold sweat. With a mixture of embarrassment and fury she realised that she needed to pass water.

_She was not going to use the chamberpot in front of these Gondoreans like some invalid!_

"Do you feel able to stand?" Mareth's sceptical tone was the last straw. Feet slightly apart, clenching her uninjured fist, her eyes blazing, Éowyn rose.

Totally unimpressed by her glare, the healer nodded and went over to open the window. "Some fresh air will do you good."

_That level voice!_ Éowyn felt like kicking the woman. She nevertheless welcomed the draught of air coming in through the window, speaking of cool, untouched freshness.

"I suppose you might wish to relieve yourself." The healer did not even bother to turn towards her, thus clarifying the humiliating aspect as what it was: natural and inevitable.

Carefully masking her fury, Éowyn nodded and stepped towards the screened off area of the room that she remembered held a washstand and chamberpot. The healer approached as well, uncovering the commode for her. For a short moment their eyes met. "You tell me what kind of help you need, my lady."

"None," Éowyn snarled, pushing herself past the healer.

"Very well then, I'll just go to fetch some sheets to freshen your bed." Her face not giving away anything, Mareth bobbed her head to Éowyn and left the room.

Making use of the moment of privacy given to her, Éowyn struggled to gather the folds of the voluminous nightgown, swearing under her breath at the limited use of her hands. Her broken arm throbbed dully, though not in the hot and prodding way that would indicate an infection, and anyway, she would rather break her arm again than admit the pain she felt. She was more concerned about that numbness in her right arm, though the healers had assured her, that would lessen, given the due time and regular exercise. But the thing that really brought her to the point of jumping out of her skin was the dratted weakness that caused her to depend on help.

**ooo**

Having finished her morning ablutions and being tucked in with fresh sheets, Éowyn could but admit to herself that she was glad to be back in bed, as she felt weak and wobbly like never before in her life. She was grateful to finally be left alone, and facing the ever brightening square of the window, that the healer had left open at her request, she let her mind drift.

How long had it been since she last had dreamt of Fréalaf's death? She sighed, trying to bury deeper into her pillow. She had thought of him more than once in those joyless years at Meduseld, watching over her uncle's faltering steps, desperately trying to hold Wormtongue's influence over him at bay, but the nightmare of his death had never occurred at that time. Her nights had been bleak, her dreams haunted by Gríma's whispers, his pale face with those clever, heavy-lidded eyes, his clammy hands groping for her. Those had been the years when she had bolted her room door and her heart, closing out all but her brother and Théodred.

She frowned. Those long years of servitude to a king and a country she once had loved and admired, years in which she saw the strength and pride of both crumple, until there was nothing but a pale shade of what she had once felt in her heart, leaving her soul barren and empty, frozen over like the black tarns at the foot of the mountains.

How she missed him! Fréalaf "Freckles", her childhood friend, her comrade and ally against her often high-handed and over-protective brother, Théodred's squire after Éomer had found out years later, that the young Rider was sweet on his sister. He would have drowned him in the trough in the stable yard but for Théodred's intervention.

Dear Théodred, who had understood her like nobody else, her friend, protector, substitute father. A great warrior, heir to the throne, sixteen years her elder, and yet he had always had an open ear for a little girl's sorrows. She swallowed hard, feeling her eyes burn with unshed tears.

Her protector he had remained till his death at the Fords. He had taken her and Fréalaf's part against both his father and her brother, moving the lad out of Éomer's reach by taking him into service as his squire in the Westfold. Her Fréa … eighteen years he had been when he had fallen, defending his Lord in an ambush, seven years ago. It had been Théodred who had brought her the ill news himself, causing her to plummet into an abyss of despair. For weeks she had dreamt of Fréalaf's death and only slowly she had been able to find her way back to life. Seven years ago now, but it seemed like an age.

Éomer had never forgiven himself for his violent temper and jealous protectiveness that had been the reason for Fréalaf leaving Edoras in the first place, though she never had blamed him for Fréa's death. Death was a Rider's risk, a fate that could have befallen him anywhere, be it in the Westfold or in the Eastemnet of the Mark, and she had told her brother so. She was not sure if she had managed to convince him, but their closeness had increased considerably afterwards. Strange, how loss caused them to stick together, to cling at one another, finding the strength to go on...

How many days had passed since Théoden had been crushed to death by his own charger on the fields of the Pelennor? She remembered waking up, her brother holding her hand, but how much time had passed since then? She had been drifting in and out of drug-hazed sleep, confusing her sense of time, but there must have passed at least one more day. She recalled the healers treating her arm, washing her, the helpless fury at being weak and immobile, the keen and anxious face of Elfhelm, who had come to see her, and Éomer's hardly contained wrath at finding the Marshal at her side. And after he had summoned Elfhelm to follow him outside she had heard his angry voice behind the door, accusing him of letting her ride with his Éored.

She sighed and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable way to place her splinted arm. Éomer loved her, but he was Éomund's son and sported his father's hot temper. And now her big overbearing brother was King of the Riddermark...

**ooo**

She must have dozed off, because she only noticed the elderly healer when she had already entered the room, carrying a serving tray.

"Good morning to you, my lady. Well, isn't it a nice morning after all those gloomy days?"

The plump little woman walked over to the bedside table and put the tray down, her stream of words never ceasing as she did so. "I always say to myself, there is nothing but a nice morning and surely some nice breakfast to go with it. So, here you are, my lady. Mareth told me when leaving after her shift that you have not broken your fast yet, so certainly it would not do to leave you waiting any longer. I would have come earlier, but you see, there is so much to do ..."

"Well, Mistress Healer, if there is, why don't you just go and do the things that need to be done?" Éowyn's tone was icy, as she needed all her self-command not to strangle that annoying woman. "And take that tray with you. I do not remember having ordered any breakfast."

The cold rebuff left the woman speechless for a moment. Gaping at Éowyn, she finally shook her head, obviously not believing what she had heard. "But my lady, you need to eat to get back your strength. It took the Lord Aragorn such a pain to get you back to life, now don't you spoil all his efforts by being stubborn."

Clucking her tongue, the healer motioned to the tray. "Look, I've brought you a nice slice of buttered bread, fresh from the oven, and there's some stewed fruit, all of it easy to digest, just you give it a try... "

"I said, no," Éowyn cut in on her, hardly able to control her voice anymore. "Leave the room. Now!"

"But my lady, ..."

_Béma, was there nothing to stop that mouth! _Éowyn wondered if kicking her would be of any avail, when a low growl from the direction of the door startled her and the healer alike.

"No buts. Leave, woman. I think my sister has made her demands clear to you."

Swivelling round, the healer stared at the man who had entered unnoticed and then hurriedly dropped into an awkward curtsy. "I'm sorry, my lord, I did not intend ..."

Raising one of his eyebrows, Éomer, King of Rohan, stepped aside and wordlessly jerked his head towards the open door. Blushing furiously, the healer shot past him, and he swiftly closed the door. Turning round, he gave his sister an impish grin.

"I've always wanted to save some beautiful maiden from the clutch of a dragon. Though that one is obviously spouting words instead of fire."

Chuckling he drew the single chair in the room close to her bedside and sat down. "How are you today, Wyn?"

She growled. _Why did he always sport that overbearing and patronising attitude when dealing with_ _her?_ She was no whimpering maiden needing rescue, though his way of dealing with that crone had been quite impressive. Sitting up straight, she glared at him, but before she could say anything, he had fetched the pillow and pushed it up behind her back.

_It was downright ridiculous, how happy she felt at the sight of her brother. _She forced her face into a scowl. "Stop fussing, you big oaf. I'm no invalid."

He cocked his head, giving her a pensive look. "Certainly not, but if I were in your position, I might have a bit of a problem, plumping up my pillow with just one hand."

Leaning back in the wicker chair, causing it to creak under his weight, he gave her one of his typical lazy smiles. "Ah, Wyn, it's so good to know you are alive and kicking, even if those kicks are aimed at me."

She could not help a corresponding grin, and for a while the siblings sat in silence, content with each other's company. The fine white linen shirt and the blue velvet tunic looked strange on him, but then: The Rohirrim had not burdened themselves with luxuries like a change of clothes, so certainly he had got the garment from one of the nobles of the town. A short glance told her that his breeches were new too; just his riding boots were the same, the ones he had worn when they had set off for Mundburg, a sennight ago.

Yet she could not resist the urge to tease him. "I see they provided some proper clothing for you. Did they endow you with a nightgown as well ?"

"A what?" His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

She plucked at the sleeve of the garment she was wearing. "A nightgown. These Gondoreans seem to be afraid of any glimpse of bare skin and stuffed me into this for propriety's sake, though it was more than difficult with this splinted arm."

"That I can well imagine." He grinned. "And no, they didn't give me a nightshirt. But they provided me with a velvet "lounging robe", whatever they mean by that."

Éomer lifted his arm, looking sceptical at the embroidered cuffs. "This was the plainest shirt Erchirion could give me to wear, as all the more sturdy garments will be distributed to the Riders."

"Erchirion?"

"Imrahil's second son. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth that is." Seeing that this information was no help, he added: "He's the one who realised you were still alive and sent for help. Seems to be the sole Gondorean Lord who knows at least something about horses. As far as I understand he's got Gondor's only cavalry unit."

The one who had forestalled her death... That was no topic she wanted to discuss. She turned her head, avoiding his eyes. "So you are staying with him now, I guess."

Stretching his long legs, he nodded. "Yes, at his town house in the sixth circle, not far from here. All in all things are very well organized. All the lightly wounded are put up in houses in the city… There must have been quite a lot of empty buildings, and the horses are tethered further south-west on the Pelennor, where the ground is almost unspoilt. Most of our Riders put up their tents down there. Well, yesterday I stayed over at the Rohirric camp as well, but as Erchirion wanted to show me the public baths this morning, it was very convenient to stay in the city last night."

She scanned his still moist hair. It was not braided the way he normally wore it in combat, but fell in rich barley-coloured waves past his shoulders. _The same colour as Théodred's. _Had Théoden King's hair been like that in his youth? She only remembered her uncle white-haired and bearded. She sighed unintentionally. There were so many things from her childhood she remembered so little about. The image of her father had coagulated into a remembrance of strength, a rich voice, resonant and low, a tall, looming figure in mail, warrior braids that light-coloured that they seemed nearly silver… She had her father's hair colour, her mother's being much darker, shining in the colour of ripe hazelnuts when it had not yet been bleached by the burning summer-sun of the plains.

"Wool-gathering?" Éomer's voice was soft, and with a pang she realized how much alike to their father's it was… Their father's in those rare moments at Aldburg, sitting with them at the table, quiet and relaxed, smiling at his wife and children… Those rare moments, when her mother's face had seemed to glow with happiness from within. Only years later Éowyn had understood the sudden flush that had crept into Théodwyn's face at her husband whispering into her ear, their hands intertwining as they left for their bedroom.

"Éowyn, sister?" She looked up into her brother's worried face. His left cheekbone sported a bruise that went well up to the bridge of his nose. _Probably hit by the edge of a shield across the vizor_, she deduced automatically. Quite a lucky dog, her big brother, just some inches lower and a blow like that might have cost him some teeth if nothing worse.

"It's nothing," she answered evasively, "I just pondered on the fact that none of us has mother's hair colour." She was not sure whether he would believe her, but to her relief he readily took up the topic.

"Well, I think mother got her tawny hair through Grandmother. Morwen's other daughters had even darker hair; at least that's what they say."

Éowyn snorted. "She was in quite a hurry to leave the Mark after Thengel King's death."

"Don't be unfair, Wyn. Two of her daughters were married in Gondor, and in the first place, she never married the King of the Mark but a Horselord in the service of Gondor. Thengel had to be convinced to come back after Fengel's death, and but for the persistence of his mother he might well have stayed in Gondor in the first place."

"Ah well, you may be right." She was in no mood to quarrel with Éomer, and perhaps as far as duty towards set tasks and one's people went, she did not have such a confident standing, she thought with a wry smile. "You wanted to tell me about the baths, didn't you?"

Cocking one eyebrow, he gave her a suspicious look, but nevertheless eagerly complied. "It was really worth going there. You see, from what Erchirion told me I expected something like the sweat lodges they have in the Wold… "

He shrugged. "Well, as a matter of fact I was totally gobsmacked when we entered, and I'm bloody sure that's what that silly ass wanted to achieve."

Éowyn could not help a grin. "I see, mighty impressive for the northern barbarian those baths, were they?"

Grinning back, Éomer nodded. "To be sure. All marble and mosaic, large lofty rooms… not bad at all. We had to strip and get scrubbed down first, before entering the actual bathing and sweating area, and all with perfumed soaps and pristine towels ..."

"And some buxom wenches to assist with the scrubbing, I bet." Displaying her most innocent face, she looked at her brother, but to her regret he did not swallow the bait.

"No, I'm afraid no wenches. But even without them it was splendid. Just imagine: polished wood, warm stone-benches to stretch out on, artificial waterfalls spouting ice-cold water, what bliss after a turn in the sweating room."

Her heart warmed at his boyish grin and the obvious pleasure over the baths, the plain joy of cleanliness and a glimpse of luxury after days in the saddle and the gore, grime and stench of battle.

"They even have a pool, Wyn. Indoors." He shook his head, as if he still could not believe it. "Imagine: A pool with crystal-clear water, deep enough to swim in it, filling a wide hall." Stretching his arms over his head, he bent backwards till his joints cracked.

"I've arranged for our Riders to get a turn. They will keep the staff at the baths occupied for a while."

He chuckled. "At least the baths is one thing to give Gondor credit for. You should go too, as soon as your arm is mended."

Éowyn snorted. "Sure, Brother. I bet you, our Riders will be mightily pleased if I share the pool with them!"

"No, I didn't mean that." In vain he tried to hide his grin. "There are also baths for women only. Though I don't know if they have a pool too, as there seem to be a lot of…ah well…facilities Gondorean women use to _enhance their beauty._"

The way he stressed the words made it more than plain to Éowyn what her brother thought about said _enhancement._ Her curiosity stirred, she asked: "Pray, tell me, Brother: What do they do?"

Éomer grimaced. "They remove the hair from their armpits and legs."

"What?" _Sure he was pulling her leg! _"You mean they shave…their legs?"

"No, they put some mixture of beeswax and I don't know what on the skin and rip the hair out." Éomer tried to keep his face impassive, but she sensed how much he enjoyed teasing her.

"You're kidding, Éomer! And anyway: How do you know?" _Trust her brother to be one day in town and to know all details about the local women's legs!_

"I'm not, I swear! Erchirion told me there are maids in the women's baths who assist with applying the stuff and ripping it off."

"But that's painful!" Just the thought of said treatment made her cringe.

"I bet it is! But Erchirion said, that that's nothing compared to what the women of Harad do." Now the smirk in Éomer's face was obvious.

"And what would that be?" The moment she asked, she knew she would regret it, "mischief" being written in bold letters across Éomer's face.

"Ah well, they remove _all_ their body hair." He leaned back in the chair, letting the news sink in.

"You mean: Rip it off with beeswax?" Éowyn was stunned.

Her brother shrugged. "Obviously their men like it that way, and not only they. Erchirion told me there had been some whores from Harad in the lower circles of the city, and they had been quite frequented."

Éowyn rolled her eyes_. Béma's_ _horse! Men's talk in the baths! Did they have nothing else on their minds?_ _And to say that women gossiped! _

Just when she was about to scowl at him, she perceived the seriousness in his eyes, contradicting his displayed mirth. With a pang she realised he was trying to distract her, make her laugh like he had done when she had been ill as a child, just the topic being slightly different. She decided to go along with his effort, and seeing the snug expression on Éomer's face, decided to pay him back in his own coin. "Well, perhaps your Riders would be more pleased if you took them there, instead to the baths."

Éomer guffawed. "I'm afraid there is no chance of doing so, as the brothel has been closed down. As a matter of fact, there are but few whores in town, and there have already been brawls and alley fights amongst the soldiers in the lower circles. It would be better if there were none at all instead of so few." He shrugged. "As it is there are only those who refused the Steward's orders to leave."

Seeing the incomprehension in his sister's eyes, he explained: "All the women and children were evacuated well before the siege began. Say what you will about Denethor, as a strategist he was worth his salt."

"Was?" She was not sure if he really had intended to phrase it like that.

Éomer scratched his jawline. "He died, actually killed himself, and as his only surviving son is seriously wounded, it's Prince Imrahil who governs the city at the moment ."

"Imrahil?" She found it difficult to control the pitch of her voice. "And what about the Lord Aragorn? He claimed to be Isildur's heir at the gates of Edoras."

Turning his face, her brother avoided her gaze. "He certainly is, Sister. But he deems the time unripe, as we still are in the middle of war and he does not want strife except with the Dark Lord. Therefore he has not entered the city yet, save for treating the sick."

_Treating the sick … how she hated being counted among them!_

Éomer cleared his throat. "Wyn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stir...things..."

She shook her head. "Just forget it, brother. Things are as they are, and problems won't go away if we give them a wide berth. But I think now is not the time to talk about the past; it's the present we have to deal with. Tell me, Éomer, how many casualties do we have?"

For a short moment Éomer looked at his hands, before facing his sister again. "Almost fifteen hundred dead and severely injured and even more horses." His voice was hoarse, and for a short while neither of them said anything. Finally he bent forwards and gently took her right hand. "Wyn, the war is not over yet. I had no time to come and see you yesterday, because we held a council of war, and Elfhelm and I were busy mustering the war-worthy Riders afterwards. It will be his task to dispatch the orc-host that's blocking the West-Road."

"You made up again with Elfhelm?"

Éomer squirmed uncomfortably. "He is a good man and a worthy marshal. I know he is not to blame, Wyn. And I probably even knew when I accused him the other night. I was beside myself with fear and self-reproach, and I vented my temper on him."

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "He did not know I was riding with his Éored until we had passed Halifirien and it was well too late and too dangerous to send me back with orcs in the Wold and enemies crossing the eastern borders. He could not do anything different. "

Looking at their clutched hands, she sighed. "And I think he simply understood, Éomer. He'd had to watch his daughter's despair … "

"Don't..." He shook his head, his clenching fingers nearly squashing hers. She winced, and abruptly he let go of her.

"I'm sorry, Wyn. But please, don't remind me..." His breath came ragged, and he pressed his lips firmly together to stop the quivering of his bottom lip to.

_How could she not have thought of it!_ _Orcs in the Wold! Gytha! _Conscience-stricken she slid closer and swung her legs over the bedside. Bending forwards, she made to take his hand, but at the same moment he threw his head back, the gargling sound of his suppressed sob tearing her heart apart.

"Brother, Bealdric's estate is well-fortified, and he has quite a number of able warriors." _How unconvincing she sounded to herself._

He looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. "Wyn," his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. "I ordered the host to ride on. I forsook her. And don't you tell me now I could not have done anything different, for I know myself. And I even know we would have been too late in the Wold and everything would have foundered in ruin had we turned aside. Wyn, I know, but it does not change anything. I should have been with her, I should have protected her, I... Wyn, she is but eleven, she ..." Unable to continue, he slumped forward, and as she gathered him to her with her right arm, he buried his face on her shoulder, crying with violent sobs, his broad shoulders heaving.

The weight of his limp body pressed down on her broken arm, his jaw digging painfully into the bruise her splintered shield had left on her collarbone. Yet she did not cringe, but straightened her back to better support his body and hold him: silent, enduring and brave, not heeding her own pain, while her warrior-brother cried for his little girl, his daughter up in the Wold.

She had never seen her, and Éomer had not been able to visit the child often these last years, but many times he had told her about the girl, his Gytha, until the mere mentioning of her name had evoked the picture of a little girl astride a sturdy pony in her mind. A laughing freckled face, with dark blue eyes, a mouth much too wide, whooping with joy as they galloped over the plain, red-golden locks fluttering in the wind.

She pressed her cheek against her brother's head. "She will be all right, Éomer, she will be all right."

Slowly he broke the embrace, passing the hem of his sleeves over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Wyn. I should not burden you with my sorrow on top of all you have gone through."

He seemed exhausted, but his face was calm, now his emotional outburst was over, passed like a thunderstorm over the plains of the Folde. How she envied him for his ability to live out his temper, though she knew that it had endangered him more than once in the past. She yearned to release the pressure that threatened to break her the way he did: in the blaze of one short eruption. And yet she knew that without her armour of frozen calm she would not have lasted one week facing Wormtongue's machinations.

"Have some tea, Éomer. There's a mug on the bedside table." It admittedly was an attempt to change the topic, but it would do him good to drink something, be it only tea.

Scanning the small table that held the tray with her breakfast, he uncovered the still warm mug on the tray, sniffing its contents sceptically. "Nettle I guess, and some bramble leaves."

His face nearly made her laugh. "I'm sorry, Éomer, but obviously the healers don't know about the virtue of breakfast ale."

"Breakfast?" He frowned. "This is supposed to be your breakfast? That old chatterbox brought it just now, and it's nearing noon. What do these morons think they are doing? How can they..."

"Whoa, Éomer! Don't strangle them yet. They brought me breakfast early in the morning and I sent it back."

_Better not tell him about her nightmares. _She shrugged, trying to keep her facial expression as composed as possible. "I don't feel hungry. So what? Drink the tea if you want it or try the other mug if you prefer something cold. The healer assured me that the tea is not drugged."

Cautiously he lifted the small earthenware lid that covered the other mug. "Smells fruity."

Sipping gingerly, he pulled a face. "Blimey, that's sweet. Tastes a bit like rose hip."

With a brusque movement he held the mug right under her nose. "Tell me, what do you make of it?"

Taking the cup, she too sniffed and sipped, rolling the tea on her tongue. "I'm not sure, Éomer. There certainly is rose hip in it, and it also has the colour, though there is something else I don't rcognise. Not unsavoury though..., and there certainly is some honey in it, but it's not _that_ sweet that it should keep you from drinking it, so stop making a fuss."

She handed the tea back, but her brother did not look convinced at all. "Please tell me, what's in this one." Pressing the still warm mug into her hand, he watched her expectantly.

"Wimp!" Taking a small sip, she wrinkled her nose. "It is nettles and bramble and I think some strawberry leaves as well, and certainly there is less honey in it."

"Fine, so that is settled." Snatching the mug from her hand, he raised it to his lips, only to stop with a big sheepish grin.

"Well, Wyn, we haven't toasted our victory yet." Raising his mug to her, he pressed the other one into her hand.

"To the Riddermark, Sister."

Taking the mug, she clinked it against his. "To the Riddermark."

_What a farce, to sit injured and useless and toast a valiant country with herb tea! _But she did not want to deject her brother, and so she played along. Avoiding his eyes, she gulped down the tea, realising as it went down her parched throat that it had been more than a day since she last had drunk anything. Lowering the mug she caught her brother's gaze, a thoughtful, scrutinising look. He was obviously up to something.

"Wyn, if you don't want to have that bread, do you mind me having it?" Puzzled she shook her head, and without further ado he grabbed the buttered slice and took a hearty bite.

"Not bad at all," he mumbled around the mouthful of bread, munching with obvious delight.

Breaking a morsel off, he held it in front of her lips. "Come on, have at least a piece to clear me from the accusation of stealing my sister's breakfast. Open your mouth."

She frowned, but let him pop the piece into her mouth. "I would not have eaten it anyway, so you just spared me another useless discussion with those dratted healers."

He nodded. "I see. And what's in that bowl?"

She shrugged. "Stewed fruit, apple I suppose."

"You're sure? Could be some Gondorean I don't know what." He reached for the bowl, taking one of the fruit pieces on the spoon and eyeing it critically from all sides, before presenting the spoon to her. "Try."

"For Béma's sake, Brother! Stop behaving as if it is going to bite you!" Yet she could not but laugh at his antics and willingly took a small bite. "It's apple, you moron. Eat it and have done with it."

Without further hesitation he slurped the syrupy dessert off the spoon, only to grimace again.

"What is it now? Too sour this time?" She had never known her brother to be picky about his food and he was certainly getting on her nerves, behaving like some spoiled brat.

"No, the fruit is fine, it's just that syrup. Would you mind to drink it off for me so I can have the fruit without it?" He was making his most convincing puppy eyes ever, she thought, when she took the bowl and slowly drank the sweet liquid. There were but three more pieces of apple in the little bowl and Éomer finished them off in no time, only to return his attention to the rest of the bread.

It took him only one more bite to nearly finish the slice, offering the last bite to her. She shook her head. "I don't feel hungry."

"You told me so, Wyn, but I beg you to eat it for the sake of sharing. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning." His face was grave now, and she felt her throat tighten.

"Where to?" Had he not said the host clearing the West-Road would be under Elfhelm's command?

"The Morannon." He looked at the now sunlit square of the window, avoiding her gaze.

The surprise nearly left her speechless. "The Black Gate? Sure we don't have remotely enough men to think of successfully calling the Black Lord out."

He gravely shook his head. "No, not successfully, but call him out we must nevertheless."

With few words he explained Gandalf's and Aragorn's plan to her and she nodded. Doomed to death they may be, but not beaten yet. "Yes, they are right. It might be useless, but there is a chance it might work. And even if there weren't … What use is it to wait for the approach of the enemy that will kill you nevertheless? None, I say. So better to stand in the front line and fall, fighting valiantly, even if there will be no one left to sing your praise afterwards. I wish I could ride with you."

A sudden movement of Éomer's hand stopped her, and shrugging, she gave him a wry smile. "No, Brother, I know quite well I can't. I would just be hampering you in the poor state I'm in. And yet it grieves me that I will be left behind once more, condemned to inaction and to wait for your return with a trembling heart."

"Éowyn, whatever happens, by killing the Witchking, you have earned your place at the warriors' table, Shieldmaiden of the Riddermark." He stroked her hand, a sad smile on his face.

She looked down at their hands, not willing to let him see the treacherous gleam of her unshed tears. Trying to compose herself, she let her fingers run over his chaffed knuckles. A warrior's fingers… Some of his cracked fingernails still sported trails of dirt, even after his visit to the baths, while the entire nail of his bruised thumb had turned into bluish-black. "Well, Brother, if against all odds we should return to Edoras one day, perhaps our people will grant me a warrior's remission, though there might be enough who will talk of desertion."

Éomer shook his head. "They say that according to the prophesy, no living man could have killed the Witchking." Gently he stroked her cheek. "Sister, I know how much heartache you went through, and yet I believe the gods favoured you."

She swallowed, willing her voice to sound confident. "It's over now, Éomer. Eorl's House has risen from the ashes. And even though we may well die, all of us, we will do so now with our heads held high."

"We certainly will." Squeezing her hand, her brother bent towards her and kissed her cheek. Looking up, she met his gaze, grey-blue eyes, dark with worry and care.

She closed her eyes as he rested his forehead against hers, his hoarse whisper piercing her heart. "Sister, please, fight to get well again. I beg you, don't give up. What will I be fighting for without you?"

He stood and walked across the room, and then with a last nod to her he opened the door and slipped out. Sinking back onto the pillow, she stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

Éomer, warrior-king of the Mark would stand for the House of Eorl, brother in arms to the Lords of Gondor, a Leader of the Armies of the West, an equal at their side. But how ever emphatically she tried to convince herself, deep inside her heart, cowering behind the cold walls of pride and duty, there was the little girl, left behind by the last living member of her family.

**Annotations:**

Thanks for their support and advice go to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien, to Ygrain33, who never failed to encourage me, and especially to Lady Bluejay who kindly helped me with the language. Her beta reading spared me a lot of embarrassment.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all how read, subscribed, favourited and reviewed.

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**Chapter 2**

**Hornbeam**

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_Then Aragorn laid his hand on Merry's head, and passing his hand gently through the brown curls, he touched his eyelids and called him by name. And when the fragrance of athelas stole through the room, like the scent of orchards, and of heather in the sunshine full of bees, suddenly Merry awoke, and he said: "I'm hungry. What is the time?"_

quoted from_ **The The Houses of Healing; The Return of the King; Book Five**_** by J.R.R. Tolkien_._**

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**Minas Tirith, 17th March, 3019, Third Age**

The hours of the afternoon crawled by like an old grey spider, leaving sticky threads of loneliness and boredom in its wake. Éowyn paced the room, slowly, her steps unsteady, but no longer feeling queasy. Lunchtime had passed, and as foretold, her breakfast having disappeared, there had been but little urging on the healer's side to eat.

She smirked to herself, remembering the days of her childhood back at Aldburg, when Éomer used to save his little sister from the terror of black pudding, a dish she still abhorred to the day, gobbling down large spoonfuls of her helping every time their mother or the housekeeper were not looking their direction. It had not mattered that she had had to share her serving of stewed fruit with him as payment, at least not much, unless he had tucked in too greedily into the sweet syrup they both liked greatly.

She jerked to a halt. _How daft had she been not to get it at once!_ _That pest of a brother!_ Yet she could not help the wave of warmth that swept through her. Her big brother Éomer, accomplished warrior, King of the Mark, playing the picky eater to entice her into eating at least part of her food. She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat. Just let him come back and she would box him around the ears for it nevertheless! She held her breath, realising what she had thought. _Oh Béma, just let him come back!_

Trying to compose herself, she went over to the window. The sky was of a cool pale blue, a spring sky still, not the flashing blue of summer, blazing like a banner of joy over the plains. Stepping onto the low footstool that was needed to reach the quite high placed window handle, she looked out, resting her hand on the windowsill. Stones… Nothing but whitish blocks and flags, pale like the bones of some long dead giant. Not a single blade of grass was to be seen between the flagstones, no moss or stone-crop on the wall that enclosed the small space, confining her gaze to the lifeless display of order and tidiness. What would she give for even a nettle to interrupt that stony desert! White stone, perhaps beautiful to the admiring eye from afar, shimmering in the sunlight, but she longed for the green of the rolling plains… A green of countless different shades, that now in spring would soon be dotted with a myriad of flowers of different colours and shape, a carpet of life bidding welcome to the new foals to be born.

A wry smile flitted across her face. Perhaps the Worm had not at all been far off the mark to call the house of Eorl a barn. Kings they might be, but farmers and herdsmen they still were in their heart and soul. That was the inextricable bond that connected them to the land, assuring their life and well-being. To that land, that at the same time demanded their blood and sweat to keep it alive and protect it: The everlasting circle that held all beings.

What did these stone-enclosed Gondoreans know about that? About the mighty breath of the gods, sweeping over the open spaces, their laughter thunder in the high vales of the mountains? She shook her head. If she was to step back into life again she had to get out of this confinement as soon as possible.

"Lady Éowyn?" A curly head poked through the slightly opened door… The Halfling.

She turned, smiling at his eager face. "Come in, Meriadoc Holdwine."

Stepping down from the stool, she motioned to the chair, still standing at her bedside as Éomer had left it. "Sit down, King's Squire."

Blushing profoundly, the hobbit clambered into the chair, awkwardly clutching a bundle of fine white cloth and finally placing it carefully on his lap.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, tilting her head. "So you are out and about, Master Holbytla?"

"Well, it's just my right hand that feels pretty numb, but otherwise I'm alright, I think."

"I'm pleased to hear that." She smiled at him encouragingly. He was fidgeting, obviously feeling uneasy, and she patiently waited for whatever it was he found so difficult to tell.

Finally he plucked at the bundle and said: "Well, you see, I got a present. Seems there are some noble minds out there who know a bit about hobbits and their appetites, and…well, as Pippin is not here at the moment, cause he has gone with Gandalf to get prepared for tomorrow..."

"Your friend will be joining the host?" Éowyn did not even try to hide her surprise.

The hobbit nodded. "Yes, he'll be for the Shire. I would like to go with him, but I think I wouldn't be of any use, I can't even hold a spoon with my right hand, let alone a sword." He grinned sheepishly. "Not that I believe a hobbit would be useful in a battle anyway, but who knows? Sometimes fate might have quite a surprise up its sleeve." Looking at her with much more confidence now, he continued. "See, I got some...dainties, and as Pip is not around, I thought to share with you, as eating alone is no real fun."

_So that was how the land lay!_ The second one trying to lure her into eating with some tall story. Eyeing the cloth carefully, she noticed the fine linen, bleached to pristine white, and was there not a small embroidery in one corner? Could it be a swan?… A ship?… Something in between. And then she knew: The swanship of Dol Amroth! The emblem of the Prince.

Carefully the hobbit opened the bundle, revealing a selection of little cakes and sweetmeats. Her eye was immediately caught by the nut cakes, and she shook her head. _Just how stupid did that bother of hers think her to be? Oh, but two could play that game!_

"Well, Master Holbytla, I see that you are well provided for and it certainly is a delicious gift, but what if I tell you I got just the same, and have already eaten it, so I won't be able to get down anything more?"

"But that can't be!" He blushed furiously, realising he had given himself away and hastily tried to repair his blunder. "I mean, food is not a present for a lady. They would give you some flowers or trinkets or…I don't know." Cringing under her stern gaze, he fell silent.

Leaning towards him, she picked up one of the nut cakes, turning it between her fingers. Nut cakes... The warmth of the big kitchen at Meduseld, the smell of browned butter, the sweet taste of honey and nuts… She had been a little girl of eight on her first night at Edoras after her mother's death, sitting on Frithuswith's lap, crying silently into the woman's apron, while Frithuswith had been crooning softly to her. Dear Frithuswith, Uncle Théoden's housekeeper, who had as well been Théodred's wet nurse, when his own mother had died in childbed. Dear Frithuswith and her wonderful nut cakes, her and Éomer's childhood delight at Edoras. How often had she greedily pinched some cakes of her brother's portion, causing him to holler and threaten he would cut her braids if he ever caught her at it. She looked up, her former sternness replaced by a sad smile. "Meriadoc, what did my brother bribe or threaten you with, to make you try and convince me to eat?"

"Nothing, my lady." Once he was sure he was found out, the hobbit seemed utterly relieved. "He came to me just before lunch and told me that he would instruct Prince Imrahil's housekeeper to deliver some cakes for you daily, and that it was my task to make you eat at least some. Well, perhaps telling me I could keep the rest was a kind of bribing?" He eyed her thoughtfully. "He is worried about you, my lady, and I think he needs the assurance that somebody cares for you." Shrugging, he pointed at the cake in her hand. "It seemed just perfect to the two of us. I mean, what gift would be more fitting for a hobbit than food? So he thought of something he knew you liked to eat: nut cakes. And here we are with a bundle of sweetmeats. Mushrooms and fried bacon would be more to my taste, but Pip…" He stopped, blushing again. "Well, my lady, there was so much that I thought it would not matter as no way you could eat all of them, isn't it? And Pippin is going to leave tomorrow and who knows..." He swallowed. "I just thought to give him a nice treat, you know, him being my younger cousin."

She looked at his hands that were nervously fumbling with one corner of the cloth. Small hands, like a child's and yet calloused, nicked, a warrior's hands, the hands that accomplished the Witchking's downfall. "Food seems to be very important for halflings," she finally said in an attempt to help him out of his embarrassment.

He eagerly nodded. "Yes, it certainly is. As a matter of fact my people do little more that produce food and eat it. They may call themselves the Masters of Buckland, but there is not much difference from the common hobbit, except perhaps, that they have a bit more food to eat. We are farmers and gardeners, and we do love the soil we live on."

She smiled: "As for that, it is a good way of living, Master Meriadoc. The Rohirrim may be warriors, but in their heart of hearts they are farmers, and they too love the land they toil."

"Yes, but you are warriors all the same. We do not know of anything more dangerous than some hailstorm on our tomatoes." He frowned. "Mind you, for decades our borders have been protected by Strider's… I mean the Lord Aragorn's people, like by a living fence, and instead of thanking them we are suspicious, because they look grim and dour. Your people have fended off the wolf themselves for centuries... Now, that surely forms the character of a people."

She shrugged. "May be, but look what your friends and you have mastered. There must be some kind of endurance in your race, like in the wood of the hornbeam."

"Yes, perhaps you are right. I think we have lived a good life of plenty for so long that we take it for granted, but come dire straits even the fattest and wimpiest hobbit can cope with quite a lot. But as long as there is meat and beer, we will enjoy it." He gave a little chuckle. "And we are mad about mushrooms."

She looked at the small square of cool blue sky. "It's the wrong time for mushrooms, I'm afraid. There are but few ones that grow in spring, and even for them it is still early in the year. But who knows? Perhaps this far south they already sprout. Morels, I mean."

"Morels!" He rolled his eyes with delight. "They are splendid. We have them in April in the Shire. But there are others as well in spring. May-mushrooms are lovely too, though not as delicious as morels. Don't you have them in the Mark?"

"Not in the plains but where there are rowan trees and wild roses or sloes." She could not but smile at his enthusiasm. "Well, and there also grows one we call the sloe-mushroom, a smallish pink gilled one that is very tasty, though it does not look very convincing."

"Pink gilled? Sounds a bit like the deadly fibrecap," the hobbit said doubtfully.

Éowyn grinned. "Yes, that's right, they really look somewhat alike. But if you eat the wrong one, you will notice the difference quite fast."

"I don't doubt that." The hobbit shuddered. "No, I'd rather stick to the ones I know and am sure about."

"Not a bad idea if you esteem your life," she agreed.

"Well, I certainly do. But then: I have done so many things lately that are not really bound to lengthen my life..."

"Like stabbing Witchkings," she added drily.

He pulled a face. "I'm perfectly happy there was but one." Clenching his right hand, he looked doubtfully at her. "The numbness in my hand really gives me the creeps. As if he is still there inside me, killing my feelings. It keeps me remembering the fear."

Éowyn frowned. She too felt annoyed by that numbness, left from the contact with the Nazgul, but it did not affect her like that. How come the Halfling, that courageous lad full of life, was so shaken by it? She preferred to look at it pragmatically. "You have to train the hand to get rid of the numbness."

"I suppose you are right." He gave her a sheepish look. "It is just, that I saw my sword break into smithereens, and it reminded me so much of that knife that went up in smoke when the Nazgul stabbed Frodo, and ..." He stopped, his mouth hanging open. "Oh my, forgive me, Lady Éowyn, but I should not ..." Blushing with embarrassment, he did not know where to look.

"Never you worry, Master Holdwine." She reached out to him, only to realise, that she was still holding the nut cake between her fingers. "My brother told me about the Lords' plans, and even he, the King of the Mark, is not fully aware of every detail of Greyhame's plans. You don't have to tell me."

"He's my kinsman, and he's the one..."

She nodded. "I understand. Let us not talk about it, lest it troubles your heart overmuch."

But the hobbit shook his head. "No, it's not like that. I know that everything that can be done to help him and Sam is done. It is just that it was so terrible to see him change, drift into the other-world, after he had been stabbed." Haltingly Meriadoc described their journey from Weathertop to Rivendel, Frodo's suffering and the terrible cold and numbness in his hand. "You see, I know there is no such splinter anywhere inside me, but I nevertheless feel the presence of ..." He did not finish his sentence, fumbling nervously with the bundle in his lap. "And then Pippin looked into that cursed stone, that Palantir, and the Enemy got hold of him. Mind you, he was not there, but Pippin felt him, felt his gaze."

The hobbit swallowed. "And yesterday Pippin told me about the Lord Denethor. How he too had looked into such a stone repeatedly and had been deceived by the Enemy, driven into despair and finally into madness. And how in the end he burnt himself on a pyre because he saw no hope any more, thus forsaking his people who were still giving battle, just as the horns of the Mark sounded at the break of day. And he tried to kill his son, too." He shuddered. "Tried to burn him alive, as he lay unconscious from an arrow wound and the Black Breath." Raising his eyes to meet hers, Meriadoc shrugged helplessly. "They say he had been a competent steward, stern and proud, always putting Gondor's needs first, and to think how the Enemy's influence changed him..."

She felt the bitterness of bile on her tongue. Denethor was by no means the only one who had changed beyond recognition under the manipulation of Sauron and his minions. Saruman, the Worm, they all had been nothing but the Dark Lord's tools, and how thoroughly had these lesser culprits managed to bring Théoden low, till the House of Eorl had been stripped of all its valour and pride, the king of the Riddermark being nothing but a puppet in the hands of the wizard of Isengard. And had not she herself felt the cold grip of uncertainty and despair?

"I know what you mean, Meriadoc." Her voice was hoarse, her lips set in a hard, bitter line. "I too forsook my people, leaving them behind at Dunharrow where duty had put me. A duty I was no longer willing to fulfil."

"No, my lady." The hobbit shook his head. "You did not leave them while they were under attack and in need of your leadership. True, you had taken an oath, but I had done so as well, and did we not fulfil that oath, staying true to king and people though we disobeyed the king's orders?" He stopped and looked at her doubtfully. "Though in this case I'm afraid _I_ am to blame even more than you, because I was directly ordered to stay behind. But anyway, as the times are exceptional, the measures people have to take are the same. Take Beregond of the Guard: He is a sworn soldier of Gondor, but had he stayed at his post, as had been his order, Denethor would have burnt his son Faramir. Only because Beregond followed his heart and did not attend to his duty, was he able to save the captain he loved and admired, and thus the plans of the Enemy were thwarted."

_Only because he followed his heart … _Had she really followed her heart, when she had decided to ride to Mundburg with the Éoreds? Had she not sought glory and death in battle due to hurt pride and stubbornness, even in despair? True, when she had made her stand against that foul beast and its rider, the King of the Nazgul, it had been out of love for Théoden, her uncle and foster father, who even in his spell-induced dotage had loved and cherished her as his daughter. In an attempt to repress the gruelling thoughts, she turned to the hobbit. "And where is that Beregond now, the one who put love before duty? Don't you tell me they left him in the Guard."

Meriadoc blushed profoundly. "Well, no. He was withdrawn from the Guard, but he serves the Lord Faramir now who is treated here at the Houses of Healing." His quite large hairy feet were dangling in the air, his legs being too short to reach the ground, but besides his shortness there was nothing that reminded Éowyn of a child. His proportions were that of a young man, just on a different scale, and his face, though open and apt to grin, still showed the traces of last week's exertions: a general weariness, and besides that a split lower lip and some scratches along his left cheek, where his vizor might have chaffed the skin. There were distinct shadows below his eyes, and it was only now that she noticed the scar on his forehead. An odd brown colour, but obviously not an old scar.

No, Meriadoc Holdwine, Squire of the King, was by no means a child, though his beardless face confused her greatly. The only other man without a beard she had ever seen had been Boromir, Denethor's eldest son, years back, when she had been but a little child at Aldburg and he a proud young Gondorean noble on his way to Edoras. She must have stared agape at him, because she remembered Éomer having slapped her under her chin to make her shut her mouth. A beardless man… That had been something as likely as a flying horse! It had been the gossip and the giggle of the maids for days, and she had listened without understanding all of it: That he shaved, even had a man-servant who shaved the hair off his face every morning. How could a grown man do such a thing? It had been the only time though she had seen him shaved, as on his later visits he had always stopped shaving as soon as leaving Minas Tirith, and when he had arrived at Edoras he had sported a generous amount of black stubble, much to the approval of the Rohirrim. When he had left after the usual sennight's stay, his beard had been quite impressive: short but shining black, shimmering in the sun like the raven's plumage. Théodred had told her Boromir would take it off, once he had crossed the Mehring Stream, as it was custom to shave in Gondor, and to her question - why the Gondorean warrior did not shave while in the Mark - he had only smiled fondly and said that it was Boromir's way to show that he esteemed the ways of the Mark.

"Lady Éowyn?"

The halfling's voice startled her out of her reverie. "I'm sorry, Master Meriadoc, I was just thinking of the other one of Denethor's sons, the one I knew: Boromir."

A pained expression flitted over his face. "He certainly was a good man, a great warrior." The hobbit swallowed hard, before he continued, his voice hoarse with grief. "He died defending me and my cousin Peregrin at Nen Hithoel, when Saruman's Uruks captured us." He touched the scar on his forehead. "That's where I got this decoration."

How much had this little person been through? Truly tough as hornbeam! There was more of a warrior in him than he would acknowledge. "Tell me about it, Holdwine, will you?"

He nodded, and with an even voice, pragmatic and serious, he told her about the fight, their captivity, how the Uruks had dragged them across the plains towards Isengard and how he and Pippin had finally escaped when Éomer's Éored had attacked the orcs in the morning. With her sense of observance, sharpened in the years of Wormtongue's machinations, she noticed that though his tale was scary, his attitude became more relaxed as he proceeded, and when he finally finished, she inquired after his hand.

Surprised he looked up. "Why, that's strange, but it feels better...warmer somehow."

Éowyn nodded. That was what she had expected. "Mind and body can't be separated, and as your mind feels at ease, it calms the troubles of your body. Share your troubles with a friend, to ease your pain, because that's what friends are for."

The surprise in the hobbit's face was replaced by a broad smile."Well, my lady, to that I agree with you wholeheartedly, but…if I may be so bold and call you a friend, then please, would you do as my friends and call me Merry?"

She laughed. "That certainly is a name that fits someone who went through all that peril and still knows to enjoy life."

"Well, my lady, let me take you at your word." His smile had become a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "What you said about mind and body being connected: It works the other way round, too. And that's what we hobbits know and draw strength and courage from." He pointed to the cake in her hand. "See to your body's needs and your mind will calm down. And share with a friend to make it more enjoyable."

Smiling, she pointed to the other cakes. "Have one yourself then, Merry, and live up to your name." Slowly she started to eat the cake, morsel by morsel, and with each tiny bite the taste seemed richer, reviving the memory of her childhood at Edoras, those days in the loving care of Frithuswith, helping her to cope with the loss of her parents. Serving herself from the jug the healers had left, she found the water slightly spiced, adding a fresh fruity taste to it.

"Those cakes are really a treat. Your brother was right to send them", the hobbit stated between two mouthfuls.

"My brother is an oaf, king or no king." She popped the last bite into her mouth and drained the cup. _How could it be that she felt so carefree?_

Merry shrugged. "All siblings are, especially elder ones. My younger sisters used to pinch me for bossing them around, and they complained that I always got bigger portions than they did. And yet, if anyone of us was in trouble, we would stand up for each other."

There really did not seem to be much difference between hobbits and men, at least at a certain age. "We used to fight over nut cakes as children," Éowyn admitted, chuckling softly.

"Did you?" The halfling raised his eyebrows. "Must have been quite impressive."

"I assure you, my uncle's housekeeper was not in the least impressed", she told him dryly. "Do you want some water?" At his nod she filled the cup for him and for a while they sat in silence, until a knock at the door announced the healers with the evening meal, a bowl of some kind of vegetable soup accompanied by a slice of freshly baked bread. The woman serving it was the same that had done so in the morning, only this time she kept her lips clamped, while putting the tray down on the bedside table, though she could not refrain from shooting Éowyn a censorious side glance.

Éowyn suppressed a grin, wondering if the criticism was motivated by her not being abed or rather because she was sitting around in male company in a nightgown. _Béma, the garment covered her from throat to toe, being that voluminous at the same time that she would have fitted twice into it, so what was the crone fussing about?_

"Would you mind serving my meal here, instead of in my room?" Giving the old healer a friendly smile, Merry skilfully ignored her consternation, only to burst out giggling, as soon as she had left the room. "Blimey, Lady Éowyn, how did you manage to shut up Ioreth? Even Aragorn and Gandalf himself tried in vain."

"Don't give me credit for that. It was Éomer who succeeded." Seeing the hobbits enquiring look, Éowyn grinned lopsidedly: "He glared at her. They say his glare can well cause a troll to drop dead. The only one who is not at all impressed by it is his horse."

"I can well imagine." The hobbit sighed. "Mind you, she is not at all just a useless gossip, but a rather competent and very dedicated healer, but she really can make your ears bleed."

His soup was brought by a young male healer, a gangling lad with lank brown hair and a noticeable limp. Without ceremony he pulled the low stool close with one foot and beckoned Merry to put his feet on it. "Much more comfortable," he explained in a surprisingly low-pitched voice, when he set the tray on Merry's lap. Turning to Éowyn, he plumped up the pillow and placed it against the headboard of the bed. "Just scoot a bit further up in the bed, will you, my lady. It will be much more comfortable for eating." Patiently he waited, no fuss, no pleading, leaving her to decide and try. Despite his youth he reminded her of the old armourer at Edoras in his skilled but unobtrusive way. Old Wiglaf, who would provide competent advice, point out the fitting weapon, but always leave choice and decision to the warrior who was to trust his life to the weapon he had chosen.

So in the end they both sat with their bowls in front of them, and only now did she notice some strange whitish strings in her soup. Suspiciously she stirred the unknown food with her spoon, when a slurping sound drew her attention to Merry.

"Shorry," he mumbled, his mouth stuffed, "but it'sh delishioush. Noodlesh," he added, pointing with his spoon at the strange strings.

"Noodlsh?" Éowyn asked, not understanding why the hobbit nearly choked with laughter.

He swallowed, emptying his mouth, and explained. "I'm sorry, my lady. It's noodles. I already had some yesterday, and they taste really nice. A bit like boiled pancake dough."

Trying the soup gingerly, she too found it quite tasty, and for a short while they ate in silence. In the end she left nearly half of her portion, but Merry showed no constraint to make short work of it. "See, I have been on rather short rations lately, and anyway it would be a crying shame to let such good food go to waste. But as you said, Lady Éowyn, I'm the king's squire, and as that it will be my most noble task during the coming days to make you eat." He grinned. "Pippin has to give a report to your brother first thing tomorrow morning."

Her overbearing brother… T_heir foreheads touching, his eyes dark with concern._ "_Sister, please, fight to get well__again... What will I be fighting for without you." _She clenched her hand. She would fight, and be it only to regain the strength for a last stand… But at her own pace!

Eyeing the hobbit, she raised her eyebrows. "Well, King's Squire, what about giving the sweets to your cousin, eating my meals for me and telling that high-handed nuisance of an elder brother that I ate it all? Nut cakes and butter fudge are not really a fitting diet for someone who has eaten next to nothing for quite a while."

"I know, my lady." Merry smiled. "You see, I think it was rather meant to feed your soul, to strengthen it to mobilise your body. Your brother might be overprotective, deserving all the names you ever thought of calling him, but he loves you, and he needs you."

She swallowed. And what did she need? Did anybody care? Scolding her thoughts as mawkish, she squared her shoulders. She was of Eorl's House, she would not just sit and do her brother's bidding. Yet he needed all the support she could give him in what might well be his last battle, and who was she to diminish his valour.

"Then let your cousin tell him that I made a good attempt and will continue as I have started, to be strong enough to kick his shins when he comes back victorious."

* * *

**Annotations:**

**hornbeam**: a relatively small hardwood tree. It's wood is also known as iron-wood.

I invented names for the mushrooms, but the descriptions would fit for

Tricholoma georgii (**May-mushroom**), Maipilz in German,

Entoloma saepium (**sloe mushroom**) Ritterling in German and

Inocybe erubescecens (**fibrecap**) Risspilz in German.

* * *

Special thanks to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for the critical eye, and to Lady Bluejay for her patience with my "German-English".


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Poppy**

* * *

"_Death in the morning and at day's ending_

_lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep_

_under grass in Gondor by the Great River." _

quoted from _**The Battle of the Pelennor Fields; The Return of the King; Book V **_**by J.R.R. Tolkien.**

* * *

**Minas Tirith, 18th March, 3019, Third Age**

She woke to the sounds of horns and trumpets, the silver tone of the Gondorean fanfares rising over the powerful low-pitched bellowing of the great horns of the North. The host was leaving. The brightening square of the open window already spoke of a fair morning; obviously she had slept longer than was her wont. A restful sleep, dreamless as far as she remembered. She had agreed to take a light draught to ease the pain in her arm. Not the benumbing poppy syrup that lulled the injured into forgetfulness, but meadowsweet, leaving the brain functioning but taking the edge off the pain. She sat up, surprised how refreshed she felt after a night's undisturbed rest. Signals and commands sprang up, reverberated by the walls of the city.

Slipping out of bed, she made for the window, knowing that she would see nothing but the stony confines that held her. It was good that Éomer had come yesterday, well before the last preparations had to be completed and the ultimate tension of departure had set in. Through the noise of the decamping companies she heard the whinnying of horses… She would have to ask Elfhelm what had become of Windfola.

Seven thousand men and one thousand horses on a hopeless march. She raised her chin in challenge. Maybe those Gondoreans hoped. Hoped that the distraction would work, but the Eorlingas would march at their side, driven on by loyalty and stubborn resistance. As long as they were able to raise spear and sword they did not need any hope.

With a grim smile she clenched her right hand. Not yet fit for anything, but she would work on that. She had no illusions concerning her left arm: The way the bones had shattered under the Nazgul's mace there was no chance that she would ever be able to raise a shield again with it. Given time it might heal, but it would always remain weak and prone to pain. She had seen enough wounded warriors to read the signs, she would not feed vain hope.

Stepping down from the stool, she looked about her room: white walls, white sheets, a white cupboard. Only the wicker-chair provided a dash of colour, be it only a faded shade of light brown. A lifeless prison, pristine walls to close her in, left behind for good this time, her warring days being done.

She needed to get out of this enclosure, and for that she needed raiment. Stepping up to the cupboard, she opened it to check its contents. Spare blankets, pillows and two piles of immaculate sheets. So that Mareth woman did not have to leave the room to change the bedding yesterday morning. A wry smile tucked the corners of her mouth. Quite an eloquent way to spare a patient embarrassment. There obviously was more to those healers than hit the eye at first sight.

But that did not provide any garment. She would have to rely on Prince Imrahil's housekeeper, and the sooner the better.

**ooo**

Soon after breakfast Merry turned up, low-spirited despite his attempts to appear at ease. As they did not feel inclined to talk, Éowyn encouraged him to start some exercises to strengthen his hand and to overcome the numbness, but with the noise of the decamping army still audible, his concentration was lacking. Finally he left, his shoulders sagging, and with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I'm no good company at the moment. I'm afraid, I already miss him."

Being left on her own, she slumped down on her bed, when her gaze was caught by the wicker chair.

_I'm afraid, I already miss him... _Yes, she did miss him, though she would not tell him, her high- handed big brother. For a split moment she wished, he was sitting there, sprawled in that creaking chair, much too small for his large frame, grinning that slow, wicked grin that could make her boil with rage. But she pushed that thought aside. He was King of the Mark, riding to war, there was no room for whining and nostalgia. Elfhelm and three thousand Riders would be leaving soon to clear the road in the north. As they had started they would continue… Théoden King would be proud of them. As they were proud of him. She smiled, remembering how her uncle had overcome the Worm's bewitchment, how lordly and strong despite his age he had returned from the battle of the Hornburg… Victorious. And now he had fallen, but not before trampling the enemy's banner into the dust. Eorl's heir had felled the Black Serpent… What a glorious way to die.

And here she was: maimed, caged, useless. Why had death been denied to her? Death in glory, victorious over Angmar. She clenched her fist. It was useless to moan and wail. Fate was like that and she would bear up under it. When at last the foe reached out for Mundburg, they would not find her unprepared. First of all she had to get back her strength and the control over her hand, and that was only achieved by continued exercise.

She started with her hand, pressing every single finger against the wall, till she felt the pain. She clenched her fist, lifted the mug the healers had left, and at the end lifted the stool over and over again, until she felt the muscles of her arm tremble with exhaustion. She knew it was senseless to continue, and so she turned to improving her general fitness, pacing the room as fast as she could, and when walking in the constricted space finally made her feel dizzy, she used the stool, stepping upon it and down again with accelerating tempo. Sweating and panting, she finally stopped, feeling mentally balanced again though bodily exhausted and crawled into bed. Her arm was throbbing constantly, as the exercises had caused it to move despite the splint, and when the healer who brought her lunch asked whether she needed a pain killer, she gratefully excepted the mug of meadowsweet tea.

In the afternoon Merry came again, and once more he brought a fine cloth, filled with a selection of sweetmeats. "The man is still waiting," he announced slightly embarrassed, "because they want to know if there is anything you would like especially."

That was her chance. Getting into bed and making sure she was well-covered, she told the hobbit to let Imrahil's man-servant enter, and soon she had expressed her need of a convenient but appropriate garment, and he left, assuring her that the housekeeper would feel honoured to be of service.

Grinning she got up, and taking up exercising her hand again, she animated the hobbit to do alike. For hours they lifted things, pushed their hands against obstacles, pulled the drawer of the bedside table with only short breaks to drink some of the spiced water and have one of the pasties that made up today's fill of the cloth. Concerned she noticed that the hobbit did not reach for a second pasty though they were crisp and fluffy, filled with fruit and clotted cream.

She must have lost track of time, for much sooner than she had expected the gangly young healer that had served them the day before entered to bring their evening meal. His eyes widened, seeing the pasties, and without hesitation Éowyn shoved the bundle into his hands. "Take them, and share them with your sweetheart."

"But, my lady..." The lad blushed profoundly, holding the bundle gingerly.

"What's the matter? If you don't have a sweetheart yet, share with some friend or fellow-healer."

"No, that's not why… I mean…" The young healer's face and neck and especially his ears were literally glowing by now, and he cast an uncertain glance at Merry. Out of the corner of her eye Éowyn saw the hobbit shake his head. The lad relaxed, and having put their trays to be reachable in a convenient way, he left the room, promising to return the cloth when he came to collect the crockery.

It was a creamy soup with tiny pieces of chicken in it this time, and they ate in silence. Only when the healer had left the room with the empty bowls did Éowyn turn to Merry. "Well, King's Squire? What did you signal him, shaking your head?"

Now it was the hobbit's turn to blush. "I offered him a cake yesterday, and he declined, but asked if I would mind him taking one for his girl." Looking up into Éowyn's eyes, he overcame his embarrassment and finally grinned. "You see, as the Gaffers in the Shire say: As long as there's life there's hope and need for vitals. Let's take it as a good omen that the lad has a girl he cares for and that she is sensible enough to care for good food."

Éowyn could not help a grin, and as if some dark cloud had been lifted, the hobbit now fell back into his easy chat, his worries for his friends being put aside for the time being, though not forgotten. They talked deep into the night, until finally Mareth turned up and shooed Merry to his own room.

**ooo**

**Minas Tirith, 19th March**

The night passed, but though she had been tired and Mareth had brought her a bitter brew of valerian and hop, Éowyn was ill at ease and sleep would not come until nigh before dawn. The morning passed much the same as the day before: She ate and exercised, alone or with Merry with grim determination: Death should not find her weak.

In the afternoon Prince Imrahil's housekeeper came herself to deliver an assortment of clothes, and Éowyn had to admit that the old woman had chosen with practical care and intelligence. The robes were easy to don, though probably not totally without help, and wide enough to go over her splinted arm. She also had brought a pair of linen shoes with thick soles of plaited straw, and slipping inside them, Éowyn found them quite comfortable, though a bit tight at the ball of the foot.

The housekeeper nodded. "I thought so. I could not imagine a trained warrior to not have muscled feet." She chuckled. "The gowns belong to Prince Imrahil's daughter. He thought you were of about the same height. Well, I selected the loosest garments, and a better fitting pair of these shoes will be ready for you by tomorrow evening."

Putting the other clothes away in the locker, the old woman placed a dark blue velvet robe at the foot of the bed. "This you can easily throw over your shoulders yourself, as it is open down the front. There is a belt attached to it, but it is voluminous enough to cover you completely, even if not belted."

Éowyn thanked her and once the woman had left, she examined the robe more closely: thick, smooth velvet, tumbling down from the shoulder seams in rich folds… Obviously that was exactly what Éomer had so contemptuously referred to: a lounging robe. With a bit of fumbling she managed to get into it and found the housekeeper's words confirmed: The garment covered her from throat to toes, even without the belt being tied. It was soft and warm, and snuggling into it, she sat down in the wicker chair, her feet pulled up beside her. Certainly this pooling robe was big enough for even her brother to fit in, and for a short moment she relished in the idea that he might have worn it when at Imrahil's house.

The second day of their march towards the Black Gate. Where were they now? Where had they spent the night? Was anybody out there thinking of her or of anyone left behind? Éomer, would he be talking with Imrahil's son about their younger siblings in the Houses of Healing in this fortress of dead white stone they called a city? Prince Imrahil, who had stolen death from her, who was he talking to? She did not even know what he looked like, but did they not all look vaguely the same, those Gondorean lords, proud of their Numenorean ancestry?

Seven thousand men on a hopeless march. She tried to imagine the colours of the pennants, flying in the brisk wind of a clear but cold day… What colours would _he_ display? She well remembered the rolled up banner _his_ kinsman had been carrying… A banner fit for a king, no doubt. Had _he_ not been kingly even in the Ranger's rags? How the mail of Théoden King's armoury had underlined _his_ proud stance… Like a king of old, stepped out of the tales and myths of the ancestors _he_ had seemed to her. What hauberk did _he_ wear now? Certainly Gondor's, the Black and Silver she had seen on Boromir in Rohan. Solemn and cold colours that nevertheless had come alive through Boromir's personality and presence, through the smile he had kindled in Théodred's eyes, the joy and friendship those two outstanding warriors and lords had seemed to bathe in at their meetings, a feeling so true and warm that it had pulled in any bystanders... And now they were gone. Dead like all of them soon would be. Dead, if the gods were merciful.

She shivered despite the thick robe. It was useless to ponder. There was no hope but that for a clean death if a noble one could not be had. They would not get her alive, but neither would she shrink away from the enemy. She was a daughter of the House of Eorl, a Shieldmaiden of the North and if death was inevitable, she would at least try to take as many of those foul creatures with her as possible. And with that she threw back the folds of the garment and stood. Squaring her shoulders she breathed deep, and pushing the chair against the wall, she took up her exercises again. Whenever they would come, they would find her prepared.

**ooo**

_It was dark, a darkness that profound that it reached into her very soul. Seized by a feeling close to panic, she held her breath and tried to get her bearings. She was lying on some kind of bedding. A bed…a sleeping roll on the ground? She was not sure, and more than she heard it, she felt the even breathing of a sleeper beside her. Shifting closer, she gingerly felt the sleeping form, afraid she might wake she did not know what. Her searching fingers touched an elbow and following the lower arm, she found the hand was placed below the sleepers bearded cheek._

_Her fingers ghosted over the features, her heartbeat speeding up with the sudden joy of recognition: Fréalaf! Shoving her left arm across his back, she crept close, leaning her head against his shoulder, relishing in the warmth that radiated from his body, breathing in the familiar smell with a contented sigh._

_She was about to drift back into sleep, when she felt something shift, some unfathomable fear rushing through her. "Fréa!" Her yell made no sound. Grabbing his shoulders in a desperate attempt to wake him, she felt cold, sweat-covered skin under her palms, bones where she had expected the swordsman's muscles. She flinched in terror, when the body beside her turned, clammy hands clutching her wrists, pulling her close. Somebody that definitely was not Fréalaf sat up straight, his upper body towering over her, following her movement as she backed off. His stale breath assaulted her nostrils and with disgust and shock she recognised who held her: Gríma! Jerking her hands down and pushing them up again in one swift moment, she freed herself from his grip, and throwing her body backwards, she brought herself out of the reach of his hands. Twisting around in the darkness, she fiercely kicked in his direction with both feet, feeling with grim satisfaction how her bare heels hit him right in the face._

_Scrambling to her feet, she tensely hearkened into the darkness, when suddenly something wet and cold wrapped itself around her ankle, pulling her off balance. She mustered all her strength, and stepped on the thing with her untangled foot. Having freed herself, she stumbled backwards, out of the reach of whatever was there in the dark, groping for her. Panting she stood, waiting for the next attack, no longer having any orientation, as sight and hearing seemed to have ceased to exist. With rising panic she felt the air around her feet turn cold, and slowly rising, the cold enclosed her, until at last she felt something rushing at her out of the darkness, an icy gust streaming in front of it, wicked and deadly. In a desperate attempt to get out of the evil draught, she flung herself aside…_

Gulping for air she woke, finding herself crouching at the head of her bed, entangled in her sheets and her sweat-soaked nightgown. Through the window the dim grey of the approaching dawn could be seen. The cold and bitter hours before dawn…how often had they found her awake those last years back in the Mark?

Trying to banish the nightmare from her mind, she rose, swearing under her breath, as freeing herself from the sheets with the use of only one arm proved more difficult than she had thought. She wanted to wash herself, to get the cold film that covered her off her body.

Pouring some water into the washing basin was challenging enough, but getting out of that cursed nightshirt proved nearly impossible. Having finally managed to undress, she sponged herself down as far as she could, but when she straightened, having dried her legs, her shoulder caught at the washstand, tipping it over and causing the washing basin to shatter with a deafening crash. Within seconds there was a soft knock at the door and then it was opened.

"My lady?"

Éowyn recognised Anwen's voice, hushed and anxious. Towel in hand, she stepped out from behind the screen. "I'm here, what do you want?"

The healer's mouth dropped open at the sight of Éowyn's naked body, her wide opened eyes dark pools in the dim light from the window. Standing proud and erect despite the splinted arm and a fair amount of bruises, Éowyn grimaced at the obvious prissiness. _Béma's horse, and that timid little girl called herself a healer!_

"What's wrong?" She felt the urge to pummel that useless wench out of her room.

The girl swallowed. "I'm sorry, my lady, I was passing by outside when I heard the noise. I thought you might be having another nightmare and just came in to check if you needed any help."

Éowyn glared at her. "I don't. But why do you prowl outside my room at this time of night in the first place?"

Lifting her right hand, Anwen produced a small phial of brown glass. "Mareth sent me to get some more poppy syrup from the apothecary." Her voice was a mere whisper. "It's because of Oswin. He's been getting worse all through the night." Her voice petered out, her eyes wide and desperate.

Éowyn felt her anger die abruptly. "Don't let me keep you from your work then. I'm alright, I just knocked the washstand over accidentally. Leave the cleaning-up till the morning. The stone floor will not suffer any harm from a small amount of water, and the shards of the basin are better collected in daylight anyway."

"As you wish, my lady." The young healer made for the door, but as she reached for the handle, she hesitated and finally turned round again and mustering all her courage, she looked up into Éowyn's stern face. "My lady, I know I'm not entitled to it and the Warden will probably not approve at all, but can't you come and see Oswin?

"Now?" Éowyn was bewildered.

Anwen simply nodded. "Please, do come, my lady, he's so terribly young and he's my responsibility, but he doesn't speak Westron… He doesn't speak at all anymore," she added with a suppressed sob.

Éowyn frowned. "You attend the wounded Rohirrim?"

"Yes, I do night shifts. But those I am with do not speak much Westron. Grimboern at least knows a little and tries to help me, translating, but I don't grasp what he wants me to understand about Oswin.

"Help me dress." Turning to the small locker, Éowyn motioned to her to take out one of the loose, sleeveless chemises. That would have to do, as the robe would go over it. Soon she was dressed and made for the door, the girl leading her through different corridors till they reached some kind of inner yard. While crossing it, Éowyn noticed that all along the walls men were sleeping on bedrolls. Frowning, she turned to the healer. "Why do these men sleep outside on the ground? Don't you have enough beds or pallets for them ?"

Anwen shook her head and laid her finger against her lips, signalling the need of silence. "They are no patients but stay to help with the wounded. We have so many severely injured that there are barely enough healers to see to the medical treatment and it is a great help that those men tend to their comrades, wash and feed them and help them with their other needs."

Approaching a large door that stood wide open to let some fresh air in, the young healer beckoned Éowyn to follow her, and they entered. Along the left and right side of the large, longish room injured Rohirrim were lying in rows of pallet-like beds lined up against the walls. Most of them were sleeping, but near the end of the room, some figures were crouching around one of the beds. An oil lamp cast some light on their faces and on the face of the young man lying there. Coming closer, Éowyn noticed the sickening stench emanating from it: a belly wound, and an infected one by the smell of it. When she reached them, the injured Rohirrim sitting on the pallets beside the dying Rider looked up and then lowered their heads in a mute but respectful greeting. One glance at the young man's face affirmed the fact that his end was fast approaching. She had been prepared for that, but what shocked her utterly was his obvious youth. The feverish, sunken cheeks were not bearded and only the chin and the upper lip sported some light dusting of downy hair. A mere boy! Éowyn knelt beside the pallet, mustering all her self-command not to pull a face at the putrid smell.

"His name is Oswin," one of the other Riders told her, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties, his voice having the soft lilt of the Eastemnet. With a jolt she recognised Grimboern, one of Elfhelm's captains, a bandage covering the left side of his head, the empty sleeve of his shirt making clear that his left lower arm had been amputated.

"Oswin!" Addressing the boy, she took his hand, but he gave no sign that he noticed her. "How come a boy this young followed the Muster?"

Grimboern shrugged. "He's by no means the only one, Lady Éowyn. So many have lost their families, their homes in the raids of the past years. What do you think keeps them alive, spurs them on, but the love for their people and the desperate urge to avenge the dead and to protect those who are still alive?"

_What spurs them on... _Solemnly she nodded.

"Waeter." The parched lips parted in a hardly audible whisper.

Taking the cup standing beside the pallet, Éowyn motioned to one of the Riders to push an arm under the boy's head to enable him to drink.

"No!" Anwen's voice was low and a little shaky, and when Éowyn looked at her in surprise, the young healer blushed, but bore up under her gaze. "Mareth told me to just wet his lips, not to let him drink, as his entrails are probably punctured."

"And?" Éowyn snapped.

"My lady," the girl spluttered, "he will die if he drinks."

"Fool! He will die anyway so what is the use of prolonging his suffering?"

"But … " The girl stared at her, her eyes wide with shock.

Anger flaring up inside her, Éowyn launched the next stroke. "I would rather deal him the finishing stroke myself than let him suffer and rot away in such an abominable way." She felt tempted to smack that imbecile, pampered being in front of her, lash out at those wide open eyes, just to give that girl a real reason to look scared and hurt.

A heavy hand on her shoulder brought her to her senses. "Hláefdige mín," Grimbold's low, lilting voice rang close to her ear, "Let her be."

Looking up into his serious face, badly bruised over the left cheekbone, she felt her irritation ebb away. How could she have snapped like that? With a nod he knelt beside Oswin's bed and shoved his arm under the boy's head, until it was cradled in his armpit. Bending over Oswin's limp form, Éowyn addressed him again, raising the cup to his lips, when a low-pitched, firm voice stopped her.

"Wait." Without further ado Mareth took the phial out of Anwen's hands and added an amount of the viscous syrup to the water. "Let him have some poppy first to ease the pain." Motioning to the younger healer to follow, she left the room, leaving the Rohirrim to tend to their comrade as they thought fit.

"Come Dear, drink."

Pouring a few drops, Éowyn waited for the young Rider to swallow and then repeated the action, dabbing what he did not swallow with the corner of the bed-sheet. After a few gulps, the boy opened his eyes with a bewildered, feverish gaze, and grabbing Éowyn's arm in a desperate clutch, he tried to sit up. With soft, crooning noises she urged him to lay back, which he did with the help of Grimboern, but he never let go of her arm. One of the Riders took the cup from her hand, and she stroked the sweat-clotted strands from Oswin's forehead. His eyes searched hers, and when Éowyn twisted her arm to take his hand, he started to speak. A rasp, breathless voice, strained with pain and fear. "Mother, don't leave me alone."

"I won't, Dear." Whispering softly, Éowyn bent towards him, squeezing his hand. "Drink some more, Oswin, come, it will do you good." But the boy had closed his eyes again, his eyelids fluttering, his lips forming one word again and again: "Mother."

"Sing, Lady." Grimboern's voice was hoarse and merely audible. "Sing and give him peace."

And Éowyn started to sing, soft and low, not the battle-songs, glorifying the valour of the fallen warrior, but a lullaby, a gentle melody her mother had sung to her, and slowly she felt the tension of the boy's tortured body slacken as the effect of the poppy set in, supported by the soothing patterns of the melody, washing over him.

Éowyn sang, her voice soft and caressing, watching the young Rider's jaw slacken. She sang as his head rolled to the left. She sang, as she felt his chest heave in one last painful breath. And still holding his hand, she sang, not the lullaby now, but one of the ancient songs, cherishing the plains, the horses, life. She sang, and then she realised that Grimboern, still kneeling beside the pallet, had started to hum. Low, dark, coarse, like rocks grinding in the rivers of the Mark, and one by one the Riders joined in, deep resonances forming a carpet of solid warmth and strength over which her own voice rose, louder now, clear and fresh, life conquering death.

And she kept singing, holding the boy's slowly stiffening hand, her gaze fixated on the window up in the wall. Slowly the dim square turned into greyish violet, the bitter hour before dawn, while she sang his soul over the threshold and they themselves stepped into the brightness of yet another hopeless day.

* * *

**Annotations:**

**poppy**: the flower is a symbol of sleep and death (eternal sleep). There are a lot of different varieties, papaver somniferum is used for the production of opium/morphine, while the red flowers of papaver roheas have become a symbol of remembrance for soldiers who have died during wartime.

**Waeter:** (Old English/ Rohirric) water

**Hláefdige mín:** (Old English/ Rohirric) my lady

* * *

Many thanks go to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien and especially to** Lady Bluejay** who took the time to beta.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Night scented gilliflower**

* * *

"_I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go," she said; but though her words were still proud, her heart faltered, and for the first time she doubted herself._

Éowyn speaking to Faramir, quoted from: _**The Steward and the King; The Return of the King; Book Five**_** by J.R.R. Tolkien.**

* * *

**Minas Tirith, 20th March 3019, Third Age**

She was still fumbling with the sash that held her robe, when Anwen and Mareth entered the room. While the young healer busied herself cleaning up the mess caused by the upturned washstand, Mareth helped Éowyn don a clean nightgown after having assisted her with getting out of robe and chemise. Still under the cloud of Oswin's death, none of them spoke. Finally Éowyn broke the oppressive silence. "Why did you leave him to suffer for more than four days?"

Mareth shook her head. "He had been quite stable until last evening." She drew a deep breath. "See, it was a clean arrow-wound, no poison, no barbs. His general constitution had been good, and as we had been informed that the Rohirrim rode on small rations, there had been a fair chance that his bowels had not been filled when he had got shot. There had been a realistic possibility that his entrails had not been pierced, and the first days seemed to confirm that as his abdomen did not swell." She shrugged and went over to straighten the bedsheets. "We kept him on small amounts of honeyed water for three days, but there obviously had been some minute perforation."

They fell silent again, and only Anwen's suppressed sobs could be heard, as she mopped the floor, avoiding the other women's gaze. Finally she left the room to discharge the waste and fetch a new washing basin.

"Mistress Mareth, why do you keep that girl? She is obviously overtaxed by what is going on and not able to cope ..."

The healer stopped Éowyn, raising her hand. "Don't judge too fast, my lady. True, she is no trained healer, but we need every willing hand. You saw the men sleeping in the yard? They are lightly wounded, not fit for battle but not in urgent need of constant medical care. We offered for them to move into houses prepared for them in the city, but seeing our needs, they stayed, thus easing our work and their comrades' sufferings. Anwen has been sitting all these past nights with Oswin, wetting his lips or giving him small amounts to drink when the healers told her to and informing us about any change in his condition. She followed orders in that, my lady, not fully understanding the context, but that does not mean that she was less devoted to her task and patient. And don't you forget: She is still a child, aged but fourteen."

"But why then don't you employ her during the day? Why does she work night shifts?"

"Because I'm a coward."

They had not heard Anwen enter, but there she stood, her face flushed from weeping. Walking over to the washstand, she put the basin down on it and took the jug to refill it.

"That doesn't make sense," Éowyn stated bluntly. "Certainly there is nothing more frightening than the night watches, surrounded by the wounded and dying."

The girl shook her head. "No, my lady. I'm not alone in the sick-room. There are those who need me and those who support me." She blushed and averted her eyes. "And sleeping during the day has the boon to wake to light, should bad dreams trouble me. I could not bear to wake alone in the dark, that's why I work at night."

With a swift movement Mareth pulled her close, hugging the girl shortly but fiercely. "Go and get some sleep, Dear. There will be much work tonight, as the Riders who went to fight the orc host on the West-Road might be coming back and that means more injured."

The girl nodded. "I'll just get some water."

Mereth's gaze followed her as she left the room and then turned to pick up the discarded nightgown. "We all fight our own single battles, my lady, and each of us must use the weapons we are able to wield." She sighed. "I'm just afraid she might get into trouble with the Warden after tonight."

"Why that? Certainly he cannot blame the boy's death on her?"

"That's not the problem. It's just that you should not have been there. You are still supposed to stay abed for more than a sennight."

Éowyn snorted. "Nobody knows she fetched me. So what?"

Mareth gave a short, bitter laugh. "Nobody would even think that she might have. No, my lady. The Warden will assume you yourself got the idea, but she led you to the Rohirrims' sickroom and did not stop you.

_Béma, did these Gondoreans really think that slip of a girl could have stopped her, even if Anwen had wanted to?_

Noticing Éowyn's expression, Mareth grimaced. "None of us healers has any illusions about gainsaying you, my lady. And not only you," she added with a wry smile. "Those Rohirrim are quite a handful, even if they are seriously handicapped."

Éowyn could not help a grin, but immediately sobered, thinking of some pompous, high-handed old man, rebuking a girl that had felt nothing but pity for the boy in her care. Her jawline set, she turned towards the window. Judging the sky outside, there were still some hours till breakfast. Her mind made up, she nodded to the senior healer. "Well, Mistress Mareth, I suppose someone is in for a major lesson on the chances to gainsay a Rohir. When does the Warden come to the Houses in the morning?"

"Normally with the second bell." Catching Éowyn's eye, the healer now grinned openly. "Poor man. He will never know what hit him." Folding back the cover of the bed, she gave Éowyn an enquiring glance. "Do you want me to assist you to lie down?"

Éowyn declined, and with a short bob of her head Mareth left the room. Éowyn scrambled into bed, once more cursing the voluminous folds of the nightgown, and had finally managed to pull up the covers when Anwen came in with a filled jug and a mug in the other hand. "I brought you some lime blossom tea, my lady. I thought you might want something soothing and hot after the exertion."

Sitting up again, Éowyn took the mug, eyeing the girl appraisingly. Fourteen years? And working night-shifts with severely wounded. How had she passed the very day of the battle with the wounding coming in, the stench, the gore and the grime, the cries and moans, the dying?

"Why do you work here, Anwen? You should have left the city well before the siege began."

"I know." The girl fidgeted, rolling down her sleeves. "But there was no one to go to." Seeing Éowyn's enquiring gaze, she added: "I have no family left but for my brother Anborn. And he's one of the Lord Faramir's rangers. One of the men he sent to reinforce Cairn Andros." She swallowed. "So staying means at least a chance of seeing him again. Though there is little hope. They say Cairn Andros has fallen."

Looking into the girl's pale and tired face, those down-cast eyes, Éowyn shook her head. Hope! For how long would these Gondoreans go on fooling themselves? And what did they hope for, anyway?

As if sensing her derision, the girl raised her head. "I know, Lady, that there is no real hope, not for me and Anborn, nor for this city. But there are so many who fought bravely against the darkness and never gave up. I can't wield a sword nor draw a bow, but at least I can show my gratitude to those who came to our aid in the bitter end, though I might not do much more than just hold a dying man's hand." She swallowed and turned her head, avoiding Éowyn's gaze. "It was just that he was so very young."

"You are not older, Anwen."

The girl raised her head, a smile on her weary face. "I know, my lady. I would not have dared to address you, had you not been so kind as to send me those sweets through Lhindir."

"Lhindir? Is that the young healer with..." Éowyn hesitated, but then decided to utter obvious things plainly. "the limp?"

Anwen nodded. "Yes. He broke his hip in an accident as a child and had to stay for months in the Houses. That was when he decided to become a healer. They say he's a quite skilled one, though he is only seventeen." A faint blush crept into the girl's pale cheeks and Éowyn smiled.

"Yes," she said, "I think he's a good healer. But go to your rest now, Anwen. The Rohirrim will need your support tonight."

The girl nodded and rose to leave, when Éowyn stopped her again. "Oh, and Anwen, be assured that the Warden will not take you to task for not stopping me to leave my room."

The girl smiled shyly and scurried out of the room. Éowyn lay back, a grim smile on her face. No, the Warden certainly would not. He would be quite busy standing up to the challenge himself.

She rested for some hours, but when one of the women came to collect the breakfast tray again, Éowyn had risen and demanded to be assisted with getting dressed. The woman gaped at her and hurriedly left the room, assuring her that she would immediately send someone.

Within a few minutes the door opened again and Ioreth barged in, puffing with agitation. "But my lady, you are expected to stay in bed for at least six more days. You're not healed yet. You can't..."

"Good morning to you, too, Mistress Healer." Éowyn's voice was as cold as hoar-frost covered steel and well as cutting. "I decided on the white kirtle to go with that light green surcoat." Having had a critical look at the garments brought to her the day before, she had thought those to be the most convenient.

"But, my lady! The Lord Aragorn... I mean the king... He said..."

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. "I answer but to one king, and that is my brother, Éomer King of Rohan." She found it difficult not to laugh, as the plump healer gulped for air, her mouth resembling that of a fat carp, caught in the fisherman's net.

Not heeding the flustered woman anymore, Éowyn bluntly pulled the lacing that tied her nightgown at the neck and wriggling her uninjured arm out of it, she shoved the garment down. Seeing her strip, Ioreth shot over to the wardrobe, hastily taking out one of the delicate lawn chemises and helped Éowyn donning it. Her face deadpan, Éowyn waited for the old healer to fetch the clothes she had ordered. Being dressed, she walked to the door. "Well, and now Mistress Ioreth, you will be so kind as to lead me to the Warden of these Houses. I would like to have a word of some importance with him."

**ooo**

Her head held high, her shoulders squared, Éowyn of Rohan strode back to her room. She was sure that her bearing did not give away her true feelings, as the last years at Meduseld had been the ultimate training for composure, but the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly. Once she had closed the door behind her, she sagged against the frame, her strength and self-command spent. She could hardly breathe, her diaphragm blocked like after a blow in the guts. How could she have humiliated herself thus, crying in the face of that man, that Steward, that...Gondorean!

Everything had started so well, when the Warden had taken her to the Steward, that Lord Faramir. She had planned to get out of the healers' care, to do something honourable and useful, and then... What had got into her to tell the Steward that her window did not look eastwards? How immature and stupid her words had sounded to her own ears, like a child's mindless complaint when facing a dull task. And on top of all she had cried. Cried!

A wave of uncontrolled fury rose above her shame. Three fast steps brought her to the foot of the bed and with a powerful kick she smashed the low stool against the wall, for a split second relishing the sound of the splintering wood. Looking at the broken piece of furniture, she heaved a breath. It was useless to try to fool herself. She was not Éomer and this display of uncontrolled anger was not helping her to regain her equilibrium. And that she needed to be able to think, to analyse. As bitter and humiliating as her weakness had been, she struggled to understand its reasons, its roots, to rip them out once and for all. Twice...twice in but a handful of days she had lost control, had lowered herself to the pitiful and impotent display of tears in front of a stranger. She...

"My lady?" The door was opened a crack. Out of the corner of her eye Éowyn spotted lank hair, brushed back from an intelligent face. Lhindir. "Oh." Seeing the smashed stool, the young healer stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He wordlessly picked up the remains of the stool, his face in a deadpan expression. "I hope you have not hurt yourself, my lady."

"I haven't." _How could it be such an effort to keep her voice even!_

The healer gave her a scrutinising look. "Do you want to lie down? Shall I send for the women to help you undress?"

Éowyn raised her chin. "I am no invalid."

Lhindir nodded, and putting down the remnants of the stool by the door, he poured her a cup from the covered mug the women had left after breakfast. "Be careful to drink enough though, my lady. It will help to prevent dizziness. How is your arm today?"

She recognised his businesslike tone for what it was: An attempt to overcome the embarrassing situation, but she nevertheless found it helpful. "It's not the broken arm that bothers me, but rather the numbness of the other."

He took her right hand, and one after the other, pinched her fingertips with his nails, asking her if she felt it. Impatiently, Éowyn pulled back her hand. "I do feel it. But the feeling is different from what it used to be. Somehow muffled. And my grip still is less precise and strong." She gave a mirthless laugh. "But I'm working on regaining its full use."

Lhindir smiled. "Persistence seems to be a very Rohirric trait."

"Persistence?" She snorted. "Feel free to call it stubbornness."

He hesitated a little, before continuing, changing the topic. "My lady, I would like to thank you for having talked to the Warden."

"You care for Anwen, don't you?"

Her remark made the young man blush. "I certainly do, but it is not only for her that I was worried." He shrugged, smiling wryly. "The Riders seem to have adopted her as some kind of mascot and if the Warden had really given her any trouble, I'm afraid Captain Grimboern would have taken him by the collar."

"And rightfully he would have done so."

Lhindir shook his head. "The Warden is not a bad man, lady. He may be strict and have a keen eye on the healers' work, but that is for the good of our patients. He is very dedicated to his profession, and he is not unjust. But these last days were certainly demanding for him." The young healer shrugged and gave Éowyn an uncertain look. "He does not know how to deal with the Rohirrim."

"And there are quite a number of them. Poor man." Éowyn's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"No, lady, don't get me wrong. He is thankful, as we all are, and he truly admires them, but he does not understand them. And by that I do not mean their language. And anyway they do not care overmuch for his requirements and orders. It's like they have taken over the Houses."

Éowyn snorted. "They are Riders, Lhindir. Warriors. Who does that Warden think Théoden King sent to fight the Dark Lord? His minstrels?"

"Certainly not, though I have to admit they are singing quite often." The young healer shrugged. "Probably it's that singing, their general attitude towards death, the way they take everything in their stride that irritates the Warden. They simply do not seem to be afraid to die."

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. "Why should they? Die we all will one day, and what better way than to fall in battle, fighting for the glory of the House of Eorl?"

Seeing Lhindir's doubtful look, Éowyn shrugged. "They certainly do not seek death wilfully and not a few might be troubled thinking of the process of dying. But what is there to be feared about death itself?

Lhindir grimaced. "It is difficult to accept when it befalls one that is dear to your heart. Anwen had so much hope that Oswin would survive."

_Hope!_ Éowyn could not help her lips curl in derision. _A fool's hope! What were these Gondoreans babbling about? _Her gaze met the healer's eyes. "There is no hope, cniht. But it does not matter."

Solemnly the young man nodded. "That's what Captain Grimboern said. They are eager to mend to be able to fight a last stand, if necessary on their knees and one-handed, but fight they will."

Éowyn smiled, her heart swelling with pride. That was true Eorlingas' spirit. "And what else would you expect them to do if the Dark Lord unleashes his forces? Give up and cower under the sheets like a child suffering from a nightmare? And would you like to fall into the enemies' hands alive?" With contempt she saw the young healer's face pale. "No, Lhindir. There is no hope, but true valour does not need hope."

"But I'm sure they have some kind of hope left, my lady. And it is you who gives them hope." Seeing her eyebrows rise, Lhindir blushed. "I am sure they would be delighted if you visited them, all of them, I mean. They talk about you, they sing about you. Not that I understand the language, but I can make out your name, and Captain Grimboern tried to translate for me, though I admit I have difficulty in understanding. He said something like they would be delighted if you would sing for them, and I'm not sure if that can be correct." He shot her a questioning gaze, and Éowyn could not help the feeling of grim satisfaction with which she lashed out to destroy his weave of deceptive hope.

"They certainly want me to sing for them, but it is not hope they expect me to give them, but honour. It is a woman's task to sing the soul of the dying over the threshold of the Halls of our Ancestors. It is women in the Mark who bury the dead. And as there probably will not be anyone left to care for the fallen, how better to prepare oneself for death than by having sung the warrior's praise and lament beforehand? I am of Eorl's House, and they certainly would feel honoured if I visited them and sang for them. And I certainly will do so, as it is my duty to my people."

Lhindir stared at her and gulped, and suddenly Éowyn felt a strange kind of pity for this young man. How could it be that they lived in the same world, faced the same foe and yet judged things so differently? She smiled. "At least you can be sure, Lhindir that once the enemy attacks there will be no hysterics, and I assure you that the Rohirrim will praise you for anything that will enable them to stand and resist a little longer."

He silently nodded, and picking up the broken stool, he left.

The room felt cold and Éowyn pulled up the blankets. Those Gondoreans were an enigma. So weak, and yet... Those healers were a strange lot: a young girl who shook in her shoes and yet carried on, a limping youngster, confronted with pain and death daily, and still yacking about hope, that gossiping crone who nevertheless cared for the sick and injured day and night... And that Warden? How different from what she had expected him to be he was. She would even have pitied him had he not been droning about the impossibility of a warrior also being a healer. That dolt! And yet she had felt his genuine worry, his sincere care. But he was totally focussed on the patients in the Houses, without any connection to reality outside. She shook her head. The young healer had called him strict, but all she had seen was an old tired man in the same plain grey garments all healers seemed to wear, the only difference being a woollen overcoat of the same colour, but that might have been owed to the quite chilly morning. There had been nothing of the arrogance and pomposity she had prepared herself to deal with. And what about Mareth's remark in the morning? Had that been a hint at his lacking realisation of reality or simply a sign that she did not like him? Anyway, seeing the Warden, she should have been prepared that things in Gondor were not what she expected them to be. She should have been more careful in her interaction with that Steward and not let her defences down the way she had.

But then: What _had_ she expected? She had known he was Boromir's younger brother, a man somewhere in his late thirties, one of these Numenoreans who were so proud of their ancient bloodline. And at least as far as his looks went, there was nothing that had surprised her. Only a fool would expect anything else but a tall, dark-haired man and most probably an accomplished warrior when Lord Denethor's offspring were considered. No, she certainly had been prepared for a true and stern Numenorean in all his dark glory, a second Boromir and not brainlessly expected some sandy-haired youth with puppy-eyes, who would melt at her biding, but she had not been prepared for a man like the one she had actually met in the gardens.

True, this Faramir did resemble Boromir, having the same colour of hair and being as tall as his brother though of lighter built. Also the general lines of the faces were alike, and yet if there was any man he reminded her of it was not his brother Boromir, a man so much like the Sons of Eorl in bearing and temperament despite his black hair, but_ him_, the ranger from the north, who was now leading seven thousand men to a hopeless but necessary battle at the Black Gate.

But she was not sure what made this so. She sat down on the bed and thoughtfully tapped her knuckles against her teeth. Was it the leaner frame? Something in his bearing? His voice? One by one she debunked her assumptions. But how could it be that this clean-shaven man reminded her of a bearded one, more than double his age? She bit her lower lip, trying to recall the very moment she had started to cry at Dunharrow. And then it dawned on her, painfully and clearly: It was their eyes. Those grey Numenorean eyes. Not the blueish or greenish grey a lot of the Eorlingas sported, but that strange dark grey like an overclouded sky at dusk. Boromir too had grey eyes, but not that kind of colour. Not that strange shade and not that glance that seemed to come out of the depth of time. She clenched her fist. And in both cases these eyes had looked down on her, filled with condescending pity!

No. Biting her lower lip, she checked herself. Not condescending. She needed to think precisely, undisturbed by her emotions. She would not have cried had there been any hint of condescendence but have become furious, reached out for that cold fury that had helped her to concentrate her willpower to keep any outer evil from touching her soul in the dark days of the Worm.

So what had been there in those grey eyes that had made her lose control that profoundly and unforgivable, reducing a Shieldmaiden of Eorl's House to a crying little girl? She heaved a breath, realising she was close to finding out what she aimed at and fearing it at the same time. It felt like the terrible pain when the healers had removed that barbed arrow from her thigh after that orc attack on the herds three years ago in the Eastemnet. Only that now the arrow seemed to have pierced her soul. She gritted her teeth. _Think, Éowyn Éomund's Dohtor! Think, for your brain is your only weapon, now like back in those days of Théoden King's decline._

Steadying her breath, she recapitulated: There had been pity, but no condescendence. Rather some kind of sympathy, even understanding...And something else... Some troubled expression, like a glimpse of care or even guilt. The regret of not being able to...?

She gulped._ Troubled grey eyes in the face of an accomplished warrior. Guilt. The distress that he could not change anything, had to say what would cause her pain... An accomplished warrior. _She squeezed her eyes shut against the pricking of tears that welled up hot behind her lids. Théodred! Her guide, her cousin, her chosen foster-father. He had had the grey eyes of the Numenoreans through Morwen of Lossarnach! Grey eyes full of care and understanding, grief and pity looking down on her. Twice he had brought her the news that the man she had chosen to love had perished, twice nothing had kept her alive and sane but his care. Théodred... Not a month ago he had been slain at the Fords of the Isen, leaving her numb and forsaken, unable to weep... And then this ranger from the north had appeared. Isildur's heir. An accomplished warrior, King of Men, a hero... And he had rejected her. And in the moment of her most bitter humiliation he had looked at her with pity, understanding and guilt... Had looked at her with Théodred's eyes.

Clutching the folds of the bedcover, she bit down on them in a futile attempt to stop the violent sobs that racked her body. And then she curled up, crying for the one she truly missed.

* * *

**Annotations:**

**night scented gilliflower: **(Hesperis matronalis) A flower blooming in spring and early summer. (looks a bit like the better know phlox). Though the flowers are open during the day, the scent gets stronger in the evening and the flower is the host plant to both, butterflies and moths.

**cniht :** (Old English/Rohirric) boy Here used by Éowyn in a condescending way.

**dohtor**: (Old English/Rohirric) daughter

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Thanks go to the ladies of the** Garden of Ithilien** and **Ygrain33** for concrit and to **Lady Bluejay** for her very helpful and much appreciated beta reading and her patience with me "Germanizing" the poor English language. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

**Hemlock**

_And so Merry was sent to Faramir, and while that day lasted they talked together, and Faramir learned much, more even than Merry put into words; and he thought that he understood now something of the grief and unrest of Éowyn of Rohan. _

quoted from:_**The Steward and the King; The Return of the King; Book Five **_**by J.R.R. Tolkien.**

* * *

**Minas Tirith, 20th March 3019, Third Age**

„Lady Éowyn?" A soft voice woke her, and opening her eyes, she noticed the Halfling's worried face hovering over her. The room was dim, the sunlit square of the window having turned to dull grey. She tried to sit up, which proved difficult, as her limbs were entangled in the heavy robe. Her broken arm was throbbing painfully and she realised that she must have lain on it at an awkward angle. Managing finally, she frowned._ It could not already be evening, could it?_ Then she noticed that Merry was standing on a footstool beside her bed._ Had she dreamt smashing it? Had she perhaps also dreamt her meetings with the Warden and with that...Steward? Had the young Rider's death been a dream, too? _Seeing her bafflement, Merry hurried to explain.

"I'm sorry to come so late, Lady Éowyn. Prince Imrahil's manservant already came in the afternoon and brought some sweetmeats and those shoes." He pointed over to the chair where a pair of straw-soled shoes lay. "But the Lord Faramir summoned me, and I have been together with him till now."

"The Lord Faramir?" She did not manage entirely to keep the pungency out of her voice.

The Halfling nodded, blushing deeply. "Yes, he sent for me, and he asked me about how I came to Minas Tirith and about you and Gandalf and simply everyone and everything. But most of all he wanted to know about Boromir."

"That can surely be understood, as you were one who saw him die," Éowyn nodded. "It must have at least been a comforting fact to learn that his brother died fighting valiantly."

Merry shrugged. "He already knew. I first thought that one of the others, I mean the members of the Fellowship, had told him, but he seems to have had some kind of vision of his dead brother." He gave Éowyn an insecure glance. "I'm afraid I don't really understand, my lady, but he was convinced that he had died well."

Skidding to the edge of the bed, Éowyn let her legs dangle. Wordlessly Merry stepped down and shoved the stool under her feet. "The healer told me not to disturb you and that you needed your sleep, but you have not eaten since breakfast and it is past supper time now. That cannot be healthy. And I promised your brother to make sure that you eat. I had better get you some soup and then you can have some of the sweetmeats as dessert."

Before she could stop him, he scurried out of the door. With a groan Éowyn stood, walked over to the window and opened it with the help of the stool. Evening had obviously come, and dusk was already obscuring the low hedge in front of her window. She must have slept for hours. Shifting uneasily, she tried to arrange her broken arm in a less painful position, but to no avail. Cursing under her breath, she went back to sit on the edge of the bed. She would have to ask the healers to reposition the splints. And with embarrassment she realized she would have to use the chamberpot.

A knock at the door caught her attention, but to her surprise it was not Merry coming back but Ioreth, carrying a jug of steaming water. Looking her over with a quick movement of her head, the old women smiled hesitantly. "I hope you slept well, my lady. I did not want to wake you for any meals as you seemed to sleep soundly for the first time in all these past days. And certainly a good sleep does half of the healing. But now you had better refresh yourself a bit before you take a bite. They have a nice chicken soup today, just the thing that mends everything. So, if you would come over, my lady and let me help you. Or would you like to relieve yourself first?"

Éowyn barely managed to suppress a groan. The torrent of words simply seemed to be unquenchable, and Éomer was not at hand to exercise his glare. She stepped over behind the screen, and Ioreth followed her, all the time chattering like one of the magpies that nested in the large chestnut trees below the kitchens of Meduseld. But in contrast to her garrulity all her movements were skilled and to the point and not a single motion was wasted. Grudgingly Éowyn had to acknowledge the crone's efficiency as by the time Marry came back, carrying a tray with a small bowl of creamy soup and a mug of tea, Ioreth had not only helped her to wash and change her garments for a nightgown and that voluminous dark-blue robe, but had also put the splints back to their original position. That woman certainly was an able healer. If only one could gag her while she worked!

Éowyn took a seat in the chair, the tray on her knees, and when they were finally left on their own, Merry sat down on the stool. The soup smelled tempting, and with sudden surprise Éowyn realised that she was hungry. She frowned. For how long had she not felt the urge to eat? She had eaten nevertheless, knowing she needed to eat to stay strong to face and master the dangers that surrounded her, but she had not cared about the taste or smell of food. Dipping the spoon into the creamy contents of the bowl in front of her, she grimaced. What a paradox that just at the moment when any chance of an honourable life in Middle Earth was drawing to a close her body decided to turn back to the enjoyment of petty pleasures like food and sleep.

"There surely is no need to spurn this soup, Lady Éowyn. Just have a taste and you'll see. There is nothing like a good chicken soup. My mother always says it can even revive the dead." Realizing what he had said, Merry blushed, but Éowyn just gave him a grin.

"I'm afraid if it was that easy to reach eternal life, chickens would have become extinct long ago. But certainly a hot soup is something good." She started eating, and if the smell already had been nice, the taste was even better. Watched closely by Merry, she slowly emptied her bowl, leaving but a few spoonfuls of the soft rice that was making the dish more filling.

Merry cocked his head. "Don't you like it? I first thought it was some kind of pearl barley, but they told me it's called rice. "

Smiling, she shook her head. "No, quite the contrary. I like it, though up to now I have only had rice as a kind of sweet dish, cooked with milk, honey and spices. My mother used to make a kind of pudding from it in winter, a tradition _her_ mother had brought to the Mark from Gondor. But I'm full. I certainly have eaten more than at any other meal for quite a time."

The hobbit grinned happily. "I wish your brother could see you, my lady. Whatever he has to face out there, this would certainly ease his worries."

"I wonder where they might be now. I wish I had a map and could talk to someone who knows the lay of the land." With a sigh Éowyn rose and put the bowl on the bedside table. Only now she spotted the small earthenware pot that stood on it. Curiously she opened the lid. It held what seemed to be cubes of orange and yellow fruit and a number of small red, cherry-like orbs, all of them looking as if glazed.

"That's the sweets they brought from Prince Imrahil's house today," Merry explained. "Crystallised cherries, pumpkin, and ginger."

"And what are they like? Or am I wrong and you did not sample one?" Merry met her wry gaze totally unabashed.

"I certainly tried them. I need to be able to counsel you, don't I?" Grinning, he pointed at the cherries. "They look nicer than they taste. They are very sweet, but there is not much cherry taste left in them. The pumpkin is quite nice, crunchy on the outside and mellow in the middle, but those ginger cubes..." He shook his head, shuddering with abhorrence. "I have never tasted anything that disgusting."

Smiling, she handed him the pot. "Have some pumpkin as dessert then, King's Squire." While the hobbit eagerly complied she walked over to the window again. It was almost dark by now, and there was not really much to be seen anyway, but the draft of fresh air gave her at least a faint impression of being in the open. She squared her shoulders. If she was going to meet that Gondorean again the next day she had better prepare herself as well as possible. Without turning, she addressed the hobbit. "So tell me, Master Holdwine, what is that Steward like?"

She felt Merry's hesitation, and a wave of anger swept through her. _So that was the way it would go._ The king's squire had spent one day in the company of that man, and already he was wavering in his sense of duty. Swivelling round, she glared at him, but to her surprise she did not see any awkwardness on his face, only deep thoughtfulness.

Finally Merry scratched his head and spoke. "I'm not sure what to say, my lady. I found him quite...well, overwhelming." He shrugged. "Not in a negative way, though, mind you. Quite the opposite. Though he certainly is a high lord and most noble, and as Pippin told me an able captain who is much loved and admired by his men, he... Well, he did not lord over me, if you get my meaning. I mean, I felt most awkward, even somehow afraid when they told me the Lord Faramir had summoned me. You see, his brother died, defending Pippin and me against those monsters, and Pippin told me about being interviewed by Lord Denethor, which had not been agreeable at all... So I expected things to be...well, more stressful and demanding."

Rising, Merry put the pot back on the bedside table, before continuing. "But the Lord Faramir was totally different. I don't know how to put it, but he reminded me..." He hesitated, and Éowyn braced herself for the inevitable comparison to_ him_, the heir of the most noble Númenorean line. Merry grimaced. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but he reminded me of Gandalf."

"Of Gandalf?" Éowyn found it difficult not to gape in surprise. What in Béma's name had the lord and warrior she had met that morning to do with that old wizard?

Merry nodded, a sheepish expression on his face. "I know it sounds all wrong. He's young, and I think people would call him handsome, and he's a lord and all... And there certainly are facial similarities with Boromir, though his stature resembles much more that of Strider, Lord Aragorn, I mean, but somehow they are totally different." His hands deep in the pockets of his worn-out trousers, Merry started to pace the room, obviously in an attempt to order his thoughts. Intrigued, Éowyn waited, surprised that the mentioning of the name had not hurt as much as she had expected. Finally Merry stopped and turned his face up to her.

"When I met the Lord Aragorn first, he was disguised as a Ranger, but still I could not help the feeling that he was... No, I should start differently." He grimaced. "You see, the Lord Boromir was all nice and friendly to us, and we owe him a great debt of gratitude, but there always was some difference between us hobbits and him. He so obviously was a lord and warrior, and after Rivendell I could not help noticing the like in Aragorn, and though I certainly love him dearly, and not only for all he has done for us hobbits, I know he is... Well, he lives on a different level than me, if you get me. I know that there never can be the closeness and unquestioned confidence that I would have with a fellow-hobbit. Not so with Gandalf."

Éowyn shook her head. "But that does not make any sense, for certainly the difference between a hobbit and a wizard is even greater."

Merry nodded. "It certainly is, but it does not seem to matter. With Gandalf I always knew he was someone exceptional, someone who is a member of this world and yet part of a greater, a divine power. I knew, or rather sensed it. He is much greater than we hobbits can comprehend, but he nevertheless seems to understand us. Not only our thoughts, mind you, but rather all of us, our entire being. He knows our strong points and our weaknesses, our boons and our flaws, but he does not judge us." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm afraid it doesn't make much sense."

Éowyn frowned. "I would not say so. As far as Greyhame is concerned it certainly makes sense, but I do not grasp how the young Steward of Gondor can resemble that mighty wizard, for certainly he does not have divine powers."

"He certainly has not. But he has the same attitude. This ability to make you feel understood and accepted." Merry raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I have to admit I felt lonely without Pippin. Lonely and worried. And when they summoned me to the Steward I expected to be interrogated. And then he spoke to me, and after a short time I felt at ease and I just talked." He gave Éowyn a sheepish glance. "I know he selected the topics, steered my talk, and yet he left me enough...well, enough room somehow. He did not press me, even when he might not have been satisfied with my answers, and he did not try to corner me, he just let me talk. Only now and then he asked for more details, but always in a way that made me feel I had a choice. And yet I am sure I told him more than I myself realised. He understood more than I said. And that is what Gandalf did."

"So certainly he's a dangerous man if he can give you such a profound false sense of security."

Merry shook his head. "Don't get me wrong. I am sure it was no way a _false_ sense of security. I am convinced I really was safe with him, like I was with Gandalf. I trust him." He scratched his head. "I suppose you are right and such powers could be used for evil purposes. Why, I saw Saruman and I heard his voice. Certainly that wizard managed to touch the minds and hearts of the people listening to him, but different from Gandalf, he did not let them be. He tried to plant his will in them to master them." He shook his head. "Hearing Saruman's voice I felt as if his thoughts were worming into my brain. Gandalf would never do anything like that. Though he'd push you to get yourself going." He hesitated. "You see, we all have things that are occupying our minds, troubling our hearts. And if we cannot open ourselves to anybody in confidence, it's getting somehow overcrowded inside us. At least that's what it is like with us hobbits," he added with a blush. "Well, and that Lord Faramir... He certainly wanted to get certain news, but he must have sensed how awkward I felt, what with Pippin gone and all that." He shrugged. "It was as if I had all these thoughts and worries running wild inside my head, but I could not let them out to get rid of them. I could not talk about them, as if the door was shut and I could not open it. Mind you, he did not force me to open up, did not even ask me to, but he talked to me and it felt as if he just gently opened the door a small crack, just helped me at the point where it was stuck and then left it for me to decide if I wanted to open it or not."

Shaking her head, Éowyn looked at the hobbit in surprise. How could someone talk about his feelings in such a direct way? Admit his fears, his needs? And what was more, to a total stranger. Well, she was warned, and she would certainly be wary of the Steward's cunning should she meet him the next day. Inviting Merry with a motion of her hand to take a seat in the wicker chair, she sat on the edge of the bed, determined to learn as much as possible of what the hobbit had told that Gondorean, and what was more, what that man had directly asked about.

"Well, Master Holdwine, but you said he asked for information about certain people, didn't you? And if I remember correctly, you said that he wanted to know about me, was that right?"

The room was nearly dark by now, but she could see the colour of a fierce blush rising in his face.

"Yes, he did ask. He wanted to know how it came that I was on the battlefield in your company, for he had already heard about you killing the Witchking." The hobbit wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. "I told him that Aragorn had left me in the king's care and that King Théoden had refused to take me with his army to Minas Tirith, and then how a young Rider who called himself Dernhelm had offered to take me with him secretly, and how I had not realised that it had been you, even though I had seen you before and even had talked to you." He shrugged. "It just had not occurred to me that any woman might ride into battle, and so I did not see a woman because I did not expect to see a woman. Well, and then he told me about the tradition of the Shieldmaidens, and how that went back far into the years when the realm of the Northmen in Rhovannion was overrun by the Wainriders who came out of the east. And he told me about their long resistance against the Easterlings and how their women fought alongside the men, until they finally moved over to the upper vales of the Anduin to become the Éotheod."

"He seems to be quite a scholar, that Steward. I just wonder why he took such an interest in the history of the Eorlingas."

"Oh, he told me that between his brother Boromir and Prince Théodred there had been great friendship. And his brother had been eager to learn as much as he could about his friend's traditions and history, but he could not be bothered to open a single book. And therefore the Lord Faramir had read any book about Rohan in the library of Minas Tirith he could lay his hands on, and whenever they met, he reported what he had found out. He asked me about Prince Théodred too, as he had never met him." The hobbit shrugged. "I suppose, he somehow wanted to find out if Boromir had done right to like him that much. But as you know I have never met the prince, because he fell when Pippin and I were still in the hands of the Uruks."

_If Boromir had done right... _Staring into the gathering darkness of the room with unseeing eyes, Éowyn heaved a deep breath. "If ever there was a thing that Boromir, Denethor's son, did right while he lived it was to cherish the friendship of Théodred, for there are few men who would love their friends that true and wholeheartedly as Théoden King's son. Alas, great hearts and great warriors they both were, but it eases my heart to know that they now will ride side by side in Béma's éohere."

Just when Merry was about to answer, Lhindir entered to bring them one of the typical Gondorean oil lamps and collect Éowyn's bowl. Putting the small earthen lamp on the bedside table, the young healer's eye fell on the still opened pot with the sweets, and though he did not utter anything, Éowyn saw his mouth form an O in utter surprise. "Feel free to take them with you, Lhindir. Though perhaps it would be kind if you left the pumpkin pieces for Master Merry."

"But you have not even tried them," protested the hobbit.

Lhindir turned towards Éowyn. "Oh, but that you really should, my lady. These are no simple sweetmeats, these are specialities of Dol Amroth. There is nothing like those cherries, and the ginger is said to be very good for convalescence."

"Ah, well." With a rakish grin Éowyn reached for one of the yellow cubes and bit it in half, delighting in the hobbit's horrified face. The first impression was one of nearly cloying sweetness, but as she started to chew a sudden piercing hotness assaulted her mouth, adding to the spicy taste of the ginger. She opened her mouth slightly and drew a deep breath, relishing in the sensation of the contradicting feeling of cool and hot at the same time.

"How can you endure that horrible taste? Nay, even enjoy it?" Merry shuddered with disgust, much to Lhindir's and Éowyn's amusement.

"Well, Master Holbytla, how about sharing the prince's gift according to our tastes? You take the pumpkin, Lhindir the cherries, and the ginger is left to me."

Even in the dim light of the lamp Éowyn could see the young healer blush. "You are very kind, my lady. But those cherries..." He stopped, looking embarrassed and even younger that his actual youth.

"Is there anything special about them?"Merry piped in.

"Well..." Lhindir hesitated. "They are often given as a special treat amongst lovers, and..."

The hobbit chuckled. "That's the same in the Shire. Though we use the fresh ones, and pretending there was a drop of juice to be caught that threatened to stain ones sweetheart's garment is a favourite pretext to steal a kiss. Give them to your sweetheart and spend a nice evening."

Seeing Lhindir's cheeks glow with embarrassment, Éowyn came to his rescue. "Is there any news from Marshal Elfhelm's advance in Anorien yet, Lhindir? I heard Mareth say last night that wounded might come in ."

The young healer shook his head. "No, my lady. There is no news yet and no wounded either. But Captain Grimboern said that did not mean anything, as he was sure that even after a successful battle Marshal Elfhelm would not risk any wounded being transported back to the city without cover, and he would need every man to make sure that even the last dispersed orc-bands were hunted down. And we did send healers with them", he added after a pause. "Skilled men who would perform the most necessary treatment so the wounded could be transported back to the city later." With a wry smile he shrugged. "I would have liked to go, but I cannot even sit a chair properly with my mangled hip, let alone a horse."

"But how then can you do the arduous work here in the Houses with such a severe handicap?" Merry blurted out.

Lhindir shrugged. "I have no problems standing and kneeling, I can walk sufficiently and if I take certain precautions when lying down, I manage to sleep quite undisturbed. So all in all I'm fit to perform a good job."

"You certainly perform more than just a good job," Éowyn assured him, "And the Eorlingas will not forget yours and your fellow-healers' commitment. And now just go and fetch something to carry the cherries in, Lhindir. It would be a pity to let them go waste."

The young healer nodded, and taking Éowyn's empty bowl with him, he hurriedly left the room.

Merry sighed. "I did not mean to embarrass him, my lady. It just is so...frustrating that all around me people are doing so much, even being hampered, and I am sitting here, like a forgotten piece of luggage and... Oh!" His eyes going wide, he covered his mouth. "I'm sorry, my lady, I did not mean..."

With a crooked smile, Éowyn shook her head. "No, you certainly did not. But you should think before you speak, Merry."

He hung his head. "I know, my lady. But I miss them all so much, and Pippin the most of all." He sighed. "And to know that they are out there, facing incredible horror, perhaps suffering pain... And I cannot help them, or at least be with them and share their fate..." Averting his face, he wiped his eyes.

"They do what needs to be done and we should be proud of being their friends. And it is our duty to strive in their honour and prepare ourselves for a last stand should the enemy overwhelm them despite their commitment and courage. We owe them, King's Squire."

Merry nodded. "That's exactly what he said."

"He?" Éowyn frowned.

"The Lord Faramir. He said, we who have to stay behind have to do what we can, and I believe you are right. I had better stop whining and look for a task I can master." Slowly a grin stole into his face. "Perhaps I should start running errands for the healers like that young son of Beregond."

"There are not only boys doing such jobs, Holdwine. A number of lightly injured Riders are staying in the houses to assist the healers and make their comrades more comfortable. So if you want to, you may accompany me tomorrow on a visit to the wounded, and we'll see what there is to be done."

The hobbit nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, my lady, I certainly would like that. At least it would take away this terrible feeling of uselessness." Giving her an uncertain glance, he shrugged. "I always thought it was terrible to leave loved-ones behind, but certainly being left behind is much more terrible. And how terrible must this feeling be for someone who has to see her sweetheart march off to battle."

Éowyn blinked. Having arrived after that cursed morning at Dunharrow, the halfling could not know about her humbling herself in front of _him. _Could it be that she had given away anything? But his thoughtful mien did not hint at anything like that. Again he shrugged.

"Not that I have a sweetheart back in the Shire. But take the Lord Aragorn. I pitied him so much when I saw him sitting in the yard the evening of our departure from Rivendell, his head bent down to his knees. And certainly he suffered a lot, and I was right to feel for him. But now, being left behind myself, I can only wonder why I never wasted a single thought on the Lady Arwen, who certainly did not grieve less, and who did not have anything in front of her but to watch and wait." The hobbit shook his head. "How wrong I have been."

Éowyn felt her nails digging painfully into her palm as she clutched her hand, carefully controlling her breath and mien, not to give away anything of her agitation.

"Who is she? That lady." She could not help but notice a certain edge in her own voice.

"Lady Arwen?" Merry looked up in surprise. "Oh, she's Master Elrond's daughter. Elrond Halfelven that is, the Lord of Rivendell or Imladris, as the Elves say. The place Boromir went to find the answer to Lord Faramir's dream. I suppose you know about that dream?"

Éowyn nodded. "Yes, I do. The Steward's son came through Edoras on his way north and he told Prince Théodred about it." She moved a bit backwards to keep her face out of the lamplight before she launched the next question. "So why do you think the daughter of an Elven lord should grieve for Isildur's heir?"

Merry avoided her glance, and she could see the blush creep into his face. "Well, he never talked about it, and nor did anybody else. But I noticed that he sat at her and Lord Elrond's side in the Hall the night we listened to the Elvish minstrels. And then... I certainly did not mean to spy or do anything improper, but the day Aragorn was to leave the valley together with the sons of Elrond, I was awake very early in the morning. And I decided to have a look at the maps in Elrond's library." Fidgeting awkwardly, the hobbit looked at his hands. "Well, and when I entered the antechamber, I caught a glimpse of Lord Aragorn and Lady Arwen, standing close to one of the large windows and obviously saying good-bye." He cleared his throat. "They did not notice me, as I retreated immediately and they were too occupied with each other anyway. I mean, they were embracing and kissing."

Éowyn held her breath to keep herself from screaming. An Elven woman! And she had been stupid enough to think she might win _his_ attention! What a fool she had made of herself. Slowly exhaling through her nose, she regained her composure. "So he is married to said lady?"

Merry shrugged. "I don't know for sure, Lady Éowyn. But her brothers, the Lords Elrohir and Elladan have come with Aragorn's kinsmen from the north. You certainly have seen them. Well, and they call him "muindor", and if I am not entirely mistaken, that means "brother"."

"You know the language of the Elves?"

"Just a few words. It was my cousin Frodo who was mostly interested in languages of all kinds, like old Master Bilbo. But I heard them talk about it, and I picked it up because I was intrigued by anything about Strider, the Lord Aragorn, I mean. They call him Dunadan in Rivendell, Man of the West. But to tell the truth, I do not know much about him, and even less about his lady, as I have only seen her a few times."

"What does she look like?" Éowyn cursed inwardly, hearing herself utter the question. _So much for speaking without thinking! _But the hobbit seemed to be oblivious. He only scratched his head.

"Oh my, that is difficult to describe. She is most beautiful, more beautiful that any woman I've seen, but then she's elvish, so that can be expected. She has dark hair and grey eyes like her brothers, but where they are stern and fierce she is..." He scratched his head. "I don't know if soft is the right word. She certainly is very serious and composed. I have seen her smile but once. And yet there is a certain softness, something like the calm of a summer's night. But I'm no poet, my lady, and a beauty like hers would certainly require a poet to praise it adequately."

She was sure he could not make out her features when he looked up. The light from the lamp fell full on his face. He grimaced. "Anyway, poet or not, such beauty is nothing that could really warm a hobbit's innards. Too ethereal for my taste. But then, being a hobbit I'm closer to the ground so it is no wonder that my taste is more earthy."

Lhindir's coming back spared her any answer, but when the young healer stepped closer to transfer the cherries into a small chipwood box he had brought, one single gaze at Éowyn's face sufficed for him to notice the difference. "My lady?" His scrutinising glance went down to her broken arm. "Are you in pain? Shall I fetch you some remedy?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you, Lhindir. It is nothing. But I suppose I should lie down again and sleep some more."

The healer's eyes narrowed slightly, but he bowed in acceptance. "Shall I send one of the women to assist you, my lady?"

She denied, and he left, wishing her a restful night. Merry too had risen, and now stood abashed, nervously fumbling the hem of his sleeves.

"Lady Éowyn..."

She shook her head. "No, Master Holbytla, don't you worry. Nothing in what you said should have caused me pain, and I do not doubt your good will. But I would like to be alone now."

He bowed and left, the worried expression never leaving his face. Slowly Éowyn doffed the robe and let it fall across the chair. How ridiculous must she have been in _his_ eyes, a mere child compared to _his_ years, a waif compared to the standing and beauty of _his_ lady. And how could she not have thought that a lord like _him_, of _his_ standing and age, more than certainly would be married? Who knew if not amongst the Grey Company that had followed _him_ so fearlessly to the Path of the Dead had been his sons, acknowledged warriors, and most probably themselves more than twice her own age? How could she have been that blind, that stupid?

And yet, would it have stalled her admiration for _him_ had she known? What had it been except admiration that had caught her like a jumping salmon in an invisible net once she had set her eyes on _him_? What had she seen in _him_ that day _he_ rode into Edoras in the company of wizard, elf and dwarf? What had _he_ been but a stern-faced, dour warrior? Oh, she had soon come to know the claim _he_ had made when setting down _his_ sword at Théoden King's threshold, and seeing the man at once she had realised that the claim was true.

Crawling under the covers, she stared at the ceiling where the light of the lamp drew circles, rippling across the painted wood as the flame flicked in the draught from the slightly opened window. How many nights had she lain like this, pondering? And how many nights had she been listening for the noise of steps in the corridor. Steps that stopped in front of her barred door, raising the image of the Worm before her inner eye, as he sniffed her scent like the cursed Hound of Darkness.

And then _he_ had come, like a gale from the north, waking Théoden King from the spell-laden dotage that worm of Saruman had laid on Eorl's House. Isildur's heir. And her pondering had changed, as she had imagined herself the blissful queen at his side. She grimaced. What had that been but childish dreams of escape? And even if _he_ had chosen her, what difference would that have made? Had _he_ not made clear to her that for _him_ a woman belonged in the house? There was no use to fool herself, to try to forget the bitter talk they had had.

To be left behind... To wait for whatever fate would deal out... Helpless, with nothing but dreams of past bliss and the desperate hope that _he_ would return hale. A woman's fate. She gritted her teeth. She was a Shielmaiden of Eorl's House and she had chosen a different path. Perhaps she had neglected her duty, but had not Frithuswith taken over? Frithuswith who had known, had understood, had not asked a single question but had helped her don her armour instead. How she wished to see the old woman once again, to sit in the warmth of the huge kitchen...

She clenched her hand at the thought of her self-inflicted humiliation. Would she really have acted differently had she known _him_ to be bound to a woman back home in the north? She had begged _him_ to take her with _him_ into battle, cried and even knelt in front of _him_. She had wanted to fight at _his_ side, fall in the sheen of _his_ glory, but would she have acted differently had she known about _his_ elvish wife? Slowly she opened her cramped fist. It was no use to try to cheat herself. She would have wanted to leave, to plunge into battle nevertheless. And nevertheless _he_ would have rebuked her and left her behind. Not because she had desired to be the woman at _his_ side, something _his_ honour demanded to rebuke, but simply because she was a woman. A creature bound to house and hearth, a reward for the victorious warrior returning to his home.

And suddenly Éowyn's heart went out to that lonely woman, left behind somewhere in that hidden vale of the north, and with surprise she realised that she pitied her for the treacherous hope she might be fostering.

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**Annotations:**

**Hemlock:** (Conium maculatum) a poisonous plant that was also used for medical issues but is deadly if not dealt with carefully

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I would like to thank all those who reviewed. I PM everyone who leaves a signed review, so this is an attempt to thank the "guests". ;)

And as always many, many thanks go to Lady Bluejay for beta-reading.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Coltsfoot and Lungwort**

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_But in the morning , as Faramir came from the Houses, he saw her, as she stood upon the walls; and she was clad all in white and gleamed in the sun. And he called to her, and she came down, and they walked on the grass or sat under a green tree together, now in silence, now in speech._

quoted from:_**The Steward and the King; The Return of the King; Book V **_**by J.R.R. Tolkien.**

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**Minas Tirith, 21st March, 3019, Third Age**

Shivering in the cold morning breeze, Éowyn shoved her free hand into the folds of the shawl that was draped around her. Standing high on the ramparts of the sixth circle that also formed a part of the walls around the garden of the Houses of Healing, she looked out over the Pelennor. Though in the still dim light she could make out but few details, the general chaos on the late battlefield was something that could not be overlooked. The fire in the trenches dug by the orcs had long been extinguished and the trenches that had crossed the roads had been filled in already, but all over the plain fires blazed or smouldered. Were they watch fires or were men still busy burning the last remnants of the enemies' equipment that had not been seen worth acquiring as loot? A western wind blew, driving the fumes away from the city, but there was a taste of smoke in the air, and Éowyn was thankful that obviously the burning of the carcasses had already finished.

She frowned as the huge mumakil came into her mind. Terrible beasts, but certainly animals. Was their meat edible? If it was, that could provide quite an important part of the provisions for the numerous troops in Mundburg that had to be fed. Denethor's courier had said at Dunharrow that the city was well provided and had enough store, but certainly that was mainly grain. And meat was always welcome with men, be they warriors or not. But who knew? Aggressive and horrible as they were, perhaps the meat of those beasts tasted and reeked as badly as that of an old wild boar during mating time. She only too well remembered her father's men having killed a most impressive boar that had attacked one of the swineherd's boys the autumn she had turned six. How huge the animal had been, how razor-sharp his giant tusks... And yet these tusks had been all her father had kept, for the meat had stunk so terribly that it had only been fit for dog food.

Again she let her eyes wander over the open space. On the other side of the Great River the country started to rise gradually but steadily to where the Ephel Dúath stood threatening in the east, a ridge of black teeth, highlighted by the red-glowing sun that now slowly rose behind it. A rising sun... Even in the darkest moments of Théoden King's decline each dawn had filled her with new strength and vigour, but now she could only think of the doomed men out there below the shadows of the cursed mountains. She swallowed to get rid of the lump that was forming in her throat. Seven thousand men marching into the very maws of the Dark Lord. Where were they now? That close to the mountainside the darkness of the night might not even have lifted yet. Or did the shadows of the Enemy's evil linger there all the time? They would be busy breaking camp... In her mind rose the familiar scene with its smells and noises, the clinking of gear, shouts of men and neighing of horses... And she would put a wager that at some of the fires some hapless lad had burnt the porridge and was now being dressed down by the Riders. The smile that started to creep into the corners of her mouth froze as she realized that she did not even know if they were having any breakfast at all or if they perhaps were engaged in battle at this very moment, or worse, already slain, having walked into a trap under the shadows of the haunted ridge that fenced the Dark Lord's land. Mordor... The very name caused her to gag.

"Lady Éowyn." A male voice ringing up from the garden below shook her out of her pondering. Éowyn grimaced. The Steward! She had not expected him to come to the garden that early, and had hoped for some quiet time alone outside of the confinement of her room. She should have known better. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face the speaker. Clad in grey and black, the Lord Faramir was walking towards the wall, raising a hand in greeting when she turned. Slowly she started to descend the stairs, adapting her breathing to her paces, steadying herself for the inevitable meeting. She would not lose her composure again. Gondor's Steward would not find her unprepared this time.

He waited for her at the foot of the stairs, bowing in that strange solemn way she had noticed before to be Gondorean custom, his right hand on his chest. "Good morning, Lady Éowyn. I hope you had a restful night." He smiled and she was surprised how much the faint crinkling of the corners of his lips made him look like Boromir. But where Boromir's eyes had sparkled with mirth each time he had greeted her at Edoras when visiting the Mark, Faramir's gaze was grave as he looked at her with enquiring concern. She lowered her head in a gesture of greeting, thus avoiding those grey eyes that so disturbingly reminded her of Théodred.

"Would you care for a walk through the garden, my lady? I suppose it might still be too dark for a clear look over the Pelennor and would rather suggest you should try for that a little later." The Steward's voice was even, not giving away what he might be thinking about her. Forcing her features into polite blandness, she nodded and side by side they started to walk back the path he had come. He did not offer his arm to her as she had expected, and though she was quite relieved at not having to walk that close to him and even touch him, it surprised her. True, her left arm being broken they would not be able to walk in the traditional way, the lady at the right hand side of the man, but why not simply offer his left arm, as he was not carrying a sword at the moment anyway? But then the Gondoreans were said to be more than pompous and ceremonious in their manners, so perhaps he did not think it proper to simply adapt to the given situation. Éowyn fought to keep the sneer at that display of stiffness and artificiality off her face until a short glance out of the corner of her eye made her notice the slightly awkward way the Steward was holding his left arm.

Had not Merry talked about Faramir having suffered an arrow wound, and Denethor trying to kill his son before burning himself? She swallowed. How much about those events did the Steward already know? Certainly he had been informed about his father's death, but what about the direct circumstances? How could it be that the Enemy's influence could get that strong over a man as stern and powerful as Denethor had evidently been? And what about her uncle? Would Théoden King too have turned against his kin like that in the end? Had he not already started behaving like that, arresting Éomer? Instinctively she pulled the folds of her scarf closer, though it was much too thin to provide any real warmth. Down here in the garden she was not exposed to the chilly wind any more but she would have preferred one of the sturdy carded cloaks from the Mark to the delicate fabric of the shawl. Anwen, who had helped her dress, had been delighted by the sight of it, and certainly it looked splendid, made from a mixture of soft white wool and cream-coloured silk, but it was something for the eye rather than of real practical use.

They had reached the arcades that contained the entrance of the Houses, and with a motion of his hand, the Steward invited her to accompany him up the central path. It went straight towards the far end of the garden, cutting it into two identical halves. At regular distances smaller paths branched off in exact right angles. Neither yesterday, nor when she had stepped out of doors today, she had paid much attention to the layout of the garden, but now, walking over the perfectly even sandstone flags the broad path was paved with, she noticed how unnatural and boring it looked. It consisted mainly of a well-cut lawn, strewn with a number of quite impressive trees and some orderly flowerbeds, all arranged along the paved lanes. The single trees were always placed exactly in the middle of a square piece of lawn, framed by the paved paths, and Éowyn recognized chestnuts, ash-and linden trees, oaks, still in their crumpled and withered autumn foliage, and closer to the outer wall hawthorn and what looked to be some kind of cherry trees while on the other side of the garden different coniferous species grew. She could make out pine and larch, silver fir and spruce, but one quite large tree she could not place. Could it be one of those famous cedars of the south Boromir had told her about? Along the lanes stone-benches were set up in exactly the same distances from each other surrounded by low, precisely trimmed privet hedges. All seemed clearly laid out, clean and orderly. Éowyn grimaced. What had she expected from a Gondorean garden but straight lines and order? At least it provided a space where she could be in the open.

"I see you are not overly enthusiastic about the garden of the Houses." The Steward's face was unreadable, but she could sense the laughter in his voice.

_Caught again, discontent like a spoilt child. _Clenching her fist, she contained herself, and tilting her head she said: "So am I to assume that you are, my lord? I have to admit that I expected the taste of a Captain of Rangers to differ slightly."

In answer he laughed openly. "You certainly know to pay back, and you are more than correct about my tastes. But alas, lady, these are not the fair woods of Ithilien but a garden for the convalescents to walk in to get accustomed to the use of their limbs again after injury or severe illness. I know the garden is rather boring, but it is part of a greater scheme, entirely focused on the needs of the patients." His foot patted the flagstone. "Sandstone," he explained. "Because it does not get slippery easily, which would endanger people who are not stable on their feet." He pointed at the closest bench. "There are opportunities to sit down at short intervals."

Éowyn frowned. "It would not be beneficial to a weak person's health to sit down on cold stones."

Faramir nodded. "It certainly would not." They had reached the bench by now, and the Steward pulled out some drawer from below it and took a rolled up square mat made of little pieces of polished wood out of it and put it on the bench with a smile. "That's why there are these wooden mats everyone can easily make use of if the weather is too cold to simply sit on the stone. Do you want to have a try?"

The Gondorean had a point there, Éowyn had to admit grudgingly, but she shook her head, and when he had put the mat back into the box, they continued towards the far end of the garden, the northern wall, in silence. There, at the foot of the wall, herb beds were situated, each one encircled with a low perimeter fence of white stone. Small wooden signs, labelled in pokerwork told the names of the herbs, and for the first time the orderly arrangement pleased Éowyn. The spot directly below the wall would be in the sun for most of the day and was a very convenient one to grow herbs, most of which preferred a light soil and full sun. It must be a beautiful and wholesome part of the garden in summer. Already, in most of the beds, the first green witnesses of returning life could be seen. Sprouts in one, swelling buds in another and the first pert leaves. Only a few beds were still covered with fir-branches and straw, containing some more exotic plants that even in the rather mild climate of Mundburg needed some protection against the cold. Éowyn walked past the herb beds, studying the signs: sage, lavender, allheal, boneset, pennyroyal, different kinds of mint and to her utter delight in one of the beds clusters of coltsfoot were already showing their flowers like tiny suns, well before their leaves would start to appear. Walking along the herb beds, they reached the western wall, and there, in the shade of a dark yew, lungwort covered the last herb bed in a carpet of flecked leaves and flowers of light-blue and pink.

"There are not many flowers that early in the year, but the few that bloom certainly ease ones heart."

Only when she heard the Steward's voice did she realise that she had been smiling in her delight to see the blossoms. With a pang she thought of the pale tulips on the plains of the Mark that would boom soon, the tufted pansies in the shrubberies... She swallowed. There was no hope, but were not these small flowers in their persistence a challenge to keep fighting? She looked up and found the Steward eyeing her with a faint smile. Embarrassed at being caught wool-gathering, she avoided his gaze.

"They are but simple flowers and yet such a lovely dash of coloured joy, a sign of life renewed." His voice was soft, a low-pitched baritone that reminded her of fertile soil. Caught by surprise, Éowyn did not know what to answer. No doubt the Gondorean was an accomplished warrior, but would any warrior really care for flowers like that? And if he did, would he say so? True, she had seen more than one lad in the Mark, collecting flowers for his sweetheart, but then the girl's interest, or rather the lad's interest for the girl had been the driving force and not any genuine liking of flowers on the man's side. A sudden thought struck her: Could that Gondorean aim to impress her with his remarks? Well, she was not that easily impressed, so let him harp on about flowers. Schooling her features into a polite smile, she turned back to him, only to find him gazing thoughtfully at the coniferous trees along the western wall. Finally he shrugged. "All these trees grow in Ithilien, the once fair land on the other side of the Anduin. And despite the Enemy's influence they still persist, their fragrance filling the air on the slopes." A sad smile flitted over his face. "The smell of pines and the noise of water, gushing over rocks... that is Ithilien for me." He heaved a breath. "But on every patrol we found more spots that had been destroyed and defiled..." He shook his head and turned back towards her. "But let us not talk about the evil that has been achieved, lest it burdens our hearts additionally. Come, my lady, let's walk along these trees and take their persistent green as a sign of hope."

Hope! She barely managed to suppress a snort. But she followed him across the lawn, and for a while they walked silently from tree to tree. Every single one was beautiful in the typical symmetry of the coniferous species, and Éowyn had to admit that she almost enjoyed the walk. The Steward did not seem to be a man given to idle prattle and she appreciated being left to her own thoughts. At the end of the row stood a pine, a strong tree with gnarled twisted branches and scaly bark. Putting a hand on the trunk, the Steward smiled. "Here is the tree I like most. Beautiful, persistent, useful... and able to get a foothold on the steepest slopes. A conifer, and yet different from the other species." He turned to her, and his smile deepened. "I seem to be allured by things that differ from the ordinary."

Éowyn nodded politely, but again she did not answer, not wanting to give him a prompt for any remark that might overstep the invisible fence she had built up around her. Merry had certainly been right. The Steward was agreeable company, but she had been warned and he would not bait her into talking, accidentally revealing what was not meant for anybody's knowledge. They had returned to the broad paved lane in front of the Houses by now, and as the sun had risen completely in the meantime, Éowyn wanted to climb the walls to have a more revealing look out over the Pelennor and the lands to the east. Walking towards the staircase that led up to the ramparts, they passed one of the flowerbeds, and Éowyn could not help but grimace at its unimaginative accuracy. The Steward must have seen it, for he chuckled softly.

"Those flowerbeds certainly are nothing breathtaking, I give you that. But much thought and care was given to their construction and planting. As you can see they are situated exactly opposite the benches. All throughout the year, a convalescent sitting on one of the benches will be able to spot something flowering in the bed in front of it, even during wintertime. There's the winter rose, winter aconite and a little later snowdrop and spring snowflake, the blue stars of wood squill and soon there will be crocus and daffodils in the lawn." Éowyn blinked, hearing the Steward list the names of all those early spring flowers that could be also found in the wild. Not only did he seem to like flowers but he also knew their names. Seeing her surprised face, he laughed. "I know, there is but little green in this city, but that does not mean that we do not love plants of all kinds. Why, even in the smallest yard of the poorest house you will find at least some pots with herbs and probably the odd geranium."

Éowyn was relieved that they had reached the staircase by now, for its narrowness forced them to climb it one after the other and thus she was spared an answer. Gathering the folds of her skirts with her free hand she had to concentrate not to step on the hem of her dress. That Steward confused her, and she did not like to be confused.

The view over the plain in front of her was worse than she had expected. Mercilessly, the rising sun had pulled away the smothering veil of darkness and the space of the battlefield lay before her eyes in undisguised gruesomeness. Once green fields, gardens and meadows had been trampled by thousands of hooves and boots, leaving nothing but muddy devastation from the city walls to the banks of the Great River. From where she stood she could only look east and north, her sight to the south being obstructed by the massive outcrop of rock that divided the city into a northern and a southern part, and of the fairly untouched patch south of the gate that Éomer had told her of, where the Eorlingas had put up camp, she could see nothing. Fifteen-hundred Riders dead or maimed, three thousand out there with Elfhelm to break the blockade of the West-Road and more than a thousand on the march towards the Black Gate... And how many had already died at the Fords of Isen, at Helm's Deep? Her people were bleeding white on trampled battlegrounds all over Gondor and the Mark.

There were tents or rather awnings out there in some places, perhaps spots where soldiers or those that laboured with the wreckage of the battle were stationed, but there was no house, no barn or even shed on the entire plain. No trees, not even shrubs could be seen. She swallowed, remembering Boromir's proud description of the Pelennor, Minas Tirith's kitchen garden as he had called it. Where were the farms and cottages now, where the gardens and orchards he had talked about, mirthfully recalling his forays as a boy on the strawberry fields and cherry trees in early summer, teasing Théodred whom he had known to love those fruits?

Now there was nothing but blood-soaked mud. She swallowed at the bitterness that congealed in her mouth. And where were all the people? The farmers, gardeners and dairy-maids? She remembered Éomer telling her that Denethor had evacuated the women and children of the town, so surely these people and their livestock had left in time, but did she not know how hard it was on a farmer to leave behind the soil he had tilled? With a sudden pang she realised that the situation was not different in the Westfold. The large fertile valley of the Deeping Coomb with its rich fields and orchards had been devastated, and Saruman's orcs had destroyed and defiled everything they had found in their way when they had marched on the Hornburg. Even if against all odds they should survive, what would the survivors live on, here as well as in the Mark? Orcs stealing horses, plundering Hillmen they had faced and fought back, but this enemy aimed at the soil itself, the backbone and soul of every people.

Out of its own volition her gaze wandered towards the river. Like the road to the north the one to the east had been cleared of the debris and where it reached the river she could see the ruins of a large city. Osgiliath, the ancient Citadel of the Stars, she remembered from hours spent under the droning voice of the royal tutor at Edoras. On the other side of the river green prevailed, light woods stretching along the bank and up into the folds of the hilly country till they met the black slopes of the Ephel Duath. From the ruins at the river a broad road headed straight east until it was lost in the haze. The road they had taken. Seven thousand men and fifteen-hundred horses. Where were they now? Turning north, she let her searching gaze follow the ridge of the mountains, but even in clear daylight there was nothing distinct to make out.

"The old Harad Road follows the seam of the Ephel Dúath from the Crossing of the Poros to the Black Gate. That would be the fastest way, and the only one such a large host can take."

The Steward's voice suddenly reminded her that he was standing at her side, and what was more, a keen observer. She would have to be more careful not to be caught in his net of studied politeness. Yet what he said made sense. The old Númenorean roads in general went as straight as possible from one place to the other and given the state of the West-Road that crossed the Mark north-westwards she could imagine that even disused and out of repair for ages they would still provide a rather speedy passage. She cast another look at the straight ribbon of the road on the other side of the Anduin and frowned as a sudden idea hit her. "Will not the enemy expect them there and try to assault the host? They will be drawn out on the road and thus an easy target for attack."

The Steward shook his head. "The lay of the land does not allow the clandestine gathering of large troops along the road. There could be single archers hidden, but I'm sure the Lords of the West will have sent scouts ahead and the Rangers know every fold of the land like the back of their hands. There is only one spot the enemy could try an ambush where the road cuts through an out-thrust of the eastward hills and therefore is flanked by rather high slopes. But even there is no space for more than a few hundred men – and unmounted ones that is." He grinned lopsidedly. "Anyway, I doubt that the enemy will succeed there, as the spot is well-known by my men. It's our favoured spot to tackle the enemy."

Again she wished she had a map. She hated to have to ask him, but she was no fool. If she wanted information on the Land of the Moon there was nobody better to ask but an Ithilien Ranger. "How far do you think they have proceeded by now?" At least she was satisfied with the even casualness of her voice. She certainly would not tell more than she said in words.

Faramir hesitated, obviously thinking. "Well, they will have to stay together, their cavalry waiting for the infantry..." He grimaced. "They'll need at least four more days to reach the Black Gate. If they stay unchallenged, that is. So perhaps come evening they may reach the spot I was talking about, some ninety miles on the road from Osgiliath."

Four more days. Four days of waiting. She squared her shoulders. She would not let these days pass unused. Four days to exercise to get back as much of her strength as possible. She grimaced. It was no use fooling herself, she would not be able to wield a sword at the moment, but a dagger would be a good idea, and a spear maybe, though a one-handed thrust was not of much use. After a last glance over to the ridge that fenced in Mordor she turned her back to it, grimly determined to walk over to the quarters of the Riders to get herself the weapons she needed and start exercising.

The opposite wall of the garden lay in bright sunlight, and only now she noticed several nooks in it, each containing narrow stone benches around a small square table. Towards the first one a tall man was walking, carrying a covered basket, and despite his grey raiment she did not think him to be one of the healers, his entire bearing seeming rather soldierly. Seeing the man, the Steward turned to her.

"My lady, would you do me the honour of breaking your fast with me?"

She did not feel especially thrilled by the prospect, but for politeness sake she nodded her consent, and they descended from the ramparts and walked over to the nook where the man had laid the table in the meantime. On a linen tablecloth he had put a small loaf of wheat bread, a dollop of butter on a glazed earthenware plate, a bowl with what seemed to be cream cheese, and a smallish pot with a wooden spoon in it. Two earthenware mugs, a covered teapot and two wooden plates completed the arrangement. She did not really feel hungry, but at least Gondor's Steward did not seem to be fond of breakfast ale like most men of the Mark and not a small number of the women as well. One had to be thankful for small favours. When they had sat down, the man poured them some tea, and she curiously picked up the mug to smell the aromatic reddish brew.

"You can lace it with honey, my lady, if you prefer sweetened tea." Smiling, the Steward pointed at the smallish pot, but Éowyn shook her head.

"I was just wondering what kind of tea it is. I first thought it to be rose hip, but it obviously is something different."

He nodded. "It's hibiscus, one of my favourites."

"Hibiscus?"

"A flower growing wild further south." He pointed at the teapot. "This one is from Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil's housekeeper knows about my weakness for it and keeps me supplied."

She did not like being reminded of said prince, and to be spared further conversation, started to sip her tea. The taste was much to her liking and she decided to have it without honey that would overlay the delicate fruity aroma and the slight hint of lemon.

"Would you like some goat-cheese with your bread?" The Steward had torn off a crust of bread and was holding a small eating knife. Motioning to the bowl he said. "It's my favourite for breakfast, but you can have some butter if you don't like the cheese. And there also is the honey."

Éowyn was torn between surprise and the urge to scowl. This Gondorean could not have got that information out of the hobbit, could he? She had never talked to Merry about her early childhood at Aldburg, about those glorious spring mornings out on the plains when her parents had taken her and Éomer with them to inspect the newly born foals. How she had loved those mornings, the smell of dewy grass, the smell of horse everything and everyone seemed to be soaked in mingling with the scent of the barley bannocks the herders' wives used to bake in the coals of the camp fire. And then there had been goat-cheese. Creamy and cool it had been a wondrous contrast to the still warm bannocks... Pulling herself together, she swallowed. It was no use becoming nostalgic like an infirm crone.

She cleared her throat. "Some cheese would be nice, my lord." She watched him spreading an ample amount of cheese on the bread and then hold the crust out to her.

"Some honey with it?"

Nodding, she reached for the honey pot to spoon some honey on top of the creamy cheese, but to her utter embarrassment her fingers refused the task of turning the wooden spoon fast enough to keep the honey from dripping. Frustrated she stuck it back into the pot.

"My lady?"

She nearly squirmed at the earnest care and worry in the Steward's voice. _Don't look into his eyes. Not now. _Schooling her features, she steadied herself. "It's my hand, my lord. I have certain problems controlling it." To her embarrassment her voice sounded pressed and brittle.

"A strain? Did you overtax it in battle, sprain it?" The tone of his voice still made her feel insecure, but the questions were down to earth in a soothing way. Without raising her gaze Éowyn shook her head.

"No, I don't think I sprained it. I don't know what it is. No pain or anything the like. Just a general numbness since..." Her voice petering out, she clenched her hand. "The Halfling suffers the same, but we took up exercising. I'm convinced that's the right way to overcome it though there might be a reoccurrence now and then."

Putting down the bread he had held out to her, he reached out for her hand and taken by surprise she did not pull it away. Holding her hand, he put his other one on top of it, enclosing her cold hand in his larger warm ones. "Do you feel that?"

_How could that voice be so irritating? _She nodded. "Yes, I do. As I told you, I am exercising it. When I woke it was absolutely lifeless, numb and cold, but..."

The sensation of his hands, firmly rubbing and massaging her cold fingers made her cease talking. Dumbfounded she stared at them. Large hands with long, slender fingers, clean short-cut fingernails that obviously had been treated with some oil. Well, if Boromir had had a valet who shaved him, why should not his brother have one to polish his nails? He was a Gondorean nobleman after all. Her hand was warming slowly under the Steward's ministrations, and while still staring at the flawless fingernails in a mixture of curiosity and disgust, she suddenly realised the coarseness of callouses scraping over the skin of her hand. _Callouses and polished fingernails. What a contradiction! _Blushing, she pulled her hand back. "I assure you, it is improving. Though I find exercising a bit difficult. I wish I had something to strengthen my ability to grip and train my muscles. A short iron bar would be fine."

He nodded. "It certainly would. But besides rebuilding strength you should also give a thought to coordination and nimbleness. But let's have breakfast first. Would you mind if I spread some honey on your bread?" Not waiting for her answer, he reached for the wooden spoon. "Say stop if it's enough."

They ate in silence and she gradually relaxed, finding herself enjoying the taste of the food in the end. A second mug of the fruity tea ended their meal, and when the Steward suggested a final walk along the western wall, Éowyn agreed without hesitation. Despite the early time of day she felt slightly exhausted. Not bodily though, but rather worn out like after attending one of the tedious councils at Meduseld under the Worm's sway, when she had had to be more than wary of his evil influence on the king and think twice about any word she had uttered. The wall protected them from the western breeze and reflected the sun, and she felt its warmth on her face. They passed some more nooks, and Éowyn was surprised how inviting she thought them now in the mild spring sun.

"They are probably too hot on a summer afternoon, but now in spring they are nice. And even in summer a morning game of chess can certainly be enjoyed here."

Startled by the Steward's remark, Éowyn looked up. Only now she noticed the inlaid white and black squares on the surface of the small table. Éowyn bit her lip. _How had this Gondorean sensed that she had been interested in those nooks? _She merely nodded her head affirmatively, avoiding looking into his face. Again in silence they proceeded towards the herb beds, until they reached that strange tree she had noticed before. Intrigued she stopped. Was it really a cedar? One of those legendary trees of the Falas she had heard of but had never seen? Walking over to the thick trunk, she put her hand on the grey, fissured bark. _Like calluses on a warrior's hands._ She frowned. Where had that thought come from?

"It's one of the oldest trees in the garden." The Steward's voice was soft, and there was something in it that made her look up with concern.

"It's a cedar, isn't it?"

Smiling sadly, he nodded, putting his hand beside hers on the bark. "My mother loved it, for it reminded her of Dol Amroth. The walks with her to this tree are one of the few things I remember about her."

Éowyn felt embarrassed, like being caught intruding. How could he mention things that intimate? No way would she have shared memories of her mother like that with a stranger. Her mother who had loved the birches, a birch herself in Éowyn's memory, white and slender, a tree of light and life until that horrible spring without bloom.

"My lady?" The soft voice again, and a likewise soft touch on her hand, easing her fingers that had clutched into the fissures of the bark. Flustered she withdrew it. How could she let her feelings show like that? He held out his hand, palm bent upwards. "Let me show you an exercise to regain control over your hand, Lady Éowyn." She shot him a doubtful glance, but he smiled encouragingly. "I'm an archer, my lady, and I need both strength and nimbleness. I think this might work for you. Will you give it a try?" She nodded, and following his instructions, she put the tips of her fingers against his. "Now don't look at your hand. I'll push a single finger at a time against yours, and your task is to react with counter pressure as fast as possible. Ready?"

He moved slowly at first applying but little pressure and giving her time to react, but as soon as she found she could manage, he sped up, forcing her to concentrate. She clenched her teeth, feeling challenged, and yet this ridiculous kind of sparing made her feel good in a strange way. _Alive_, she thought, pushing her thumb forcefully against his.

"Enough, my lady!" Catching her hand in his, he smiled. "Don't overdo it. You should not risk spraining your fingers. Better repeat it again this afternoon." She nodded, surprised how warm her hand felt. The fatigue was gone and she was breathing a bit faster than usual. Four more days until the inevitable would happen. She would be able to wield a blade by then.

"Westu, Éowyn hál!" The sonorous voice rang through the garden, and swivelling round, Éowyn beheld a tall Rider approaching her at a brisk pace. If the voice had not already told her who he was, his wiry frame and the flaming red of hair and beard would have removed any doubts.

"Ceadda!" She almost squealed with excitement, seeing him. Ceadda of Aldburg, an expert as far as horses were concerned, the guard of her early childhood, the one who had taught her to ride and swear, the later much to the disapproval of her mother. He greeted the Steward with no more than a casual nod of the head and then faced her with a broad grin, his eyes mere cerulean slits in his weather-beaten face.

"The Marshal sent the fastest riders to bring the news to Mundburg right after we had cleaned up that scum on the road and made sure that none of the rats escaped. So here I am, Éowyn, Éomund's Dohtor, to tell you that we were victorious in Sunlending and to answer any questions you might have. At least that's what Marshal Elfhelm told me to do."

"You said _riders_. Who..."

Ceadda made a vague movement with the hand that held his helmet. "Young Cena came with me. The bloke talks the Common Speech like a bloody Gondorean, and therefore the Marshal sent him to the Citadel, to inform the Steward there."

Hiding a grin, Éowyn motioned to the Gondorean. "Well, Ceadda, then perhaps I had better translate your missive, for this man is the Steward."

"Is he?" Ceadda's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Well, we've finished a nasty job over there on the West-Road, and now the Marshal's troops are slowly returning to Mundburg. We have less than hundred fallen Riders, but a large number of injured. And we lost more than five hundred horses." He grimaced. "Aimed at their bellies, those bastards. But we left none of those beasts to crawl back to their evil master." He drew a deep breath. "Marshal Elfhelm is accompanying the wounded. They will be here in the late afternoon. The leeches we had with us told me to give word to the Warden."

Éowyn nodded. Turning to the Steward, she briefly informed him of Ceadda's missive. He listened solemnly, and then to her utter surprise, bowed to Ceadda. "We certainly owe the Riders of the Mark. The courage of Eorl's people is praiseworthy."

Éowyn translated, and the Rider's blush nearly outmatched the colour of his hair. Smiling, she turned again to the Steward. "My lord, not finding you in the Citadel, no doubt Cena will soon arrive here, and will be able to answer any further questions you might have. If you will excuse me now, I would like to accompany Ceadda to the Warden, to make sure that the man gets all the details he needs."

The Steward nodded. "I'll send my man for Elfhelm's courier and ask the counsellors over to the Houses this evening." Bowing, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles in courtly manner. Looking into her eyes, his face suddenly split in a broad grin. "And have pity on the Warden and spare him, Lady Éowyn. He's a good man in his own way, and we still need him."

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**annotations:**

**Sunlending: **Rohirric name for Anórien

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Many, many thanks to** Lady Bluejay** for helping me with the language and to all those who encouraged me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 **

**Simbelmyne**

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_And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the city._

Quoted from: _**The Ride of the Rohirrim; The Return of the King, Book Five; **_by **J.R. **

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**Minas Tirith, 21st March, 3019, Third Age**

Their visit to the Warden's was but short. Éowyn and Ceadda found him in a large sunlit room, carefully measuring out small amounts of different herbs, seeds and other substances while a young lad in the grey garb of the healers was busy grinding these ingredients with mortar and pestle and packing them into smallish jars. Stowing the herbs and his utensils away, the old man asked a few questions concerning the number of the wounded and the time they might arrive and then he sent the lad to inform the wards in question and started to meticulously cork up the jars and seal each one of them.

"We have been preparing since the moment the troops left for Anórien," he explained while closing the last jars. "As you perhaps know, we did not keep any lightly wounded in the Houses but put them up in formerly deserted large houses in the fifth and forth circle where the healers check on them in a daily routine. We prepared another quite large building in the fifth circle and now with the news of the arrival of the wounded in the late afternoon, we'll start to take everyone who can walk on his own feet down there to make room for those who might need closer observance and care."

Having sealed the jars, the Warden counted them and then opened a large book and wrote down the number of jars and their contents. Closing the book, he looked up, and Éowyn was surprised by the change his features had undergone since she had met him the day before. It was the same haggard face, partly covered in grey stubble, the same thin neck which made his larynx look almost obscenely present under the folds of his wrinkly skin, the same nearly bald head with that ridiculous wreath of short grey hair, but where one day ago his deeply-set eyes had been tired and worried now they had a lively, almost determined expression, and his thin lips were crinkled in a faint smile.

"I have to have a look at the progress made in the wards, my lady. Would you care to accompany me?" Opening the door for them, he let them out and then carefully locked the door. "We keep potions here that could be dangerous in the wrong hands, so we have to be careful," he explained and then started to scuffle along the corridor at a remarkable speed. When they approached the wards they encountered the first group of men, walking slowly towards the main entrance, leaving for their new quarters in the fifth circle. While she had been talking with the Warden things obviously had already been set into action. The men nodded to the Warden, greeted Éowyn respectfully and asked Ceadda a few questions concerning the campaign before they went on, and the Warden smilingly shook his head. "Remarkable men, these Rohirrim, but no easy patients."

Éowyn suppressed a snort. "They are warriors, Master Warden, not children."

The old man uttered a soft laugh, brittle like dry leaves, rustling in a sudden gust. "Oh, I'm grateful they are warriors, my lady, and no mistake. But to me, all my patients are my children and the naughty and obstinate ones I do not love less. But I feel very much reassured by the fact that Captain Grimboern has taken up the baton to keep at least some rule and order in the four wards that house the Rohirrim."

They had reached the first ward by now, and when they stepped through the large wooden door into the yard Éowyn stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at the whirling chaos in front of her. It was the first time she saw the wards by daylight, and the small quiet yard she had crossed at night was a display of bustling activity now. Three other doors opened into the yard, and all of them were thrown wide, to allow some of the wounded to be led out with the support of their comrades, and others to be carried on their pallets across the yard from one of the sickrooms arranged around it to another. Healers in grey robes and Eorlingas alike were transporting empty pallets and blanket piles, wooden buckets with steaming water and packs with the wounded Riders' gear and belongings. It looked as if an entire éored was breaking camp. She spotted Merry at one of the open doors, a rough brush in his hand, asking one of the Riders to bring him one of the filled buckets, and beside the small water basin in the middle of all this stood Grimboern, watching the chaos with obvious delight.

"What is going on here?" Éowyn bit the inner part of her cheek to keep herself from smirking, seeing the Warden's face take on a vivid pink hue. Again he had the worried look she had noticed the previous day. His larynx jumped, giving her the impression of a frog, imprisoned in that wrinkly throat and desperately struggling to get free. Seeing an elderly healer coming out of one of the sickrooms, the Warden hastily excused himself and went over to the portly man to learn about the going-ons.

His attention drawn to them by the Warden's squeal, Captain Grimboern walked over to them, a broad grin on his face. "Hail, Éowyn Cynesweoster and welcome to you, Ceadda. Seems we have frightened our dear Warden a little again. He obviously does not like to be surprised."

Éowyn snorted. "I have to admit that I'm slightly surprised, too. The Warden told me that the lightly wounded would be taken somewhere else to make room for those coming from Sunland, but I certainly did not expect such a bedlam."

Grimboern guffawed. "It's no bedlam at all, I assure you. Just some kind of orderly chaos. All who can walk will be led to a house in the fifth circle. A fine building with a nice yard with shading trees. And it even has stables. All a bit overgrown by weeds, but it must have been quite an impressive residence. The boys will be comfortable there. Pallets and bedding were taken over there yesterday and all in all they'll have more room and less regulations than here in the Houses. And anyway everybody who can walk as far as the camp will be happy to go there."

A greeting shouted across the yard caught their attention. A young lad stood in the door of one of the sickrooms, waving one of his crutches about clumsily, and Ceadda's long bony face split in a wide grin as he rushed over to violently hug the boy. Grimboern's face went serious. "Lost two of his nephews, the poor bugger. Leofstan, his sister son, is the only one of the three who came with him to survive."

"That is Leofstan?" Éowyn was shocked. She knew the youngest of Ceadda's nephews had been born the year after Juthwara's death, so he was fifteen at most.

Grimboern shrugged. "He and his elder brother came as grooms, not as warriors. Some scattered troops of those Southron bastards sneaked up behind our baggage train and before our Riders became aware of them, most of the grooms were chopped down." The large man heaved a breath. "Herders from the Eastemnet. They stood their ground and defended the horses like their kin. We avenged them fittingly and let none of the Southerners escape, but it grieves to lose such dedicated lads."

Solemnly Éowyn watched Ceadda and his nephew leave the yard, the messenger answering the boy's barrage of questions, his duty as errant rider clearly forgotten. Ceadda the herder, the fastest and most skilled Rider in the Folde. Ceadda, who loved children and never had fathered any despite the affectionate relationship with his late wife. She gritted her teeth. Now at least he would be able to be at his nephew's side when it came to the last stand. Four more days at most for the host to reach the Black Gate... And he would not have to face his siblings, bringing word of the boys' death. For a split second she doubted the people's minds. Why were these fools milling about, arranging and rearranging the housing of the wounded when they were going to die anyway in such a short time? Dismissing the thought as weakness, she squared her shoulders and turned to Grimboern.

"I do understand that they need room for the wounded that will arrive from Anórien, and it certainly makes sense to put up those who do not need urgent treatment any more somewhere else, but why are they making the bedridden change rooms?

"That was Limp's idea." Grimboern motioned over to where Lhindir stood amongst a group of young Riders, obviously explaining something.

Éowyn bristled. "That young man is a more than able healer and he certainly does not deserve to be called names by you."

The Captain raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I certainly did not mean to belittle his skills, nor do I want to insult him, Éowyn. But the names of these Gondoreans are difficult to remember and to pronounce for most of the lads, and so we have Limp Lhindir, and little Wren Anwen, his sweetheart. Not to forget Mother Goose Ioreth and the billy-goat."

"Billy-goat?"

Grinning, Grimboern jerked his head to where the Warden stood, still in a vivid discussion with the elderly healer. "And don't worry. They call him that for his voice, not his stink."

Éowyn suppressed the sudden urge to grin too and shook her head. "And what did Lhindir suggest?"

"Oh, they put those patients together who need approximately the same treatment. That makes it easier for the healers and for the helpers. We have three more wards like this one with wounded Eorlingas, with a yard and three large rooms around them. They are trying to empty one room in every ward for the wounded to come. Lim... er, Lhindir pointed out that thus they could give the empty room a thorough scrub before the new patients arrive. The work is mainly done by our own men, to give the healers a break before the storm sets in." Grimboern grimaced. "We'll need all healers we can get then, even those who normally do the night shifts."

At that moment a group of young Riders entered the yard, some of them carrying armfuls of bedding over from one of the neighbouring wards. One of them was limping heavily and only after a second look Éowyn recognised the features of Berhtulf, one of Éomer's men, under the purple and greenish bruises that marred his face. But before she could greet him, Ioreth shot towards him, blocking his way, the speed of the plump old woman surprising not only Éowyn.

"You brainless rascal! Go back to bed! Immediately! Do you hear me? I told you to stay put, didn't I? Why can't you obey orders for once? You Rohirrim and your mulish stubbornness! You're risking your health, don't you understand that? You have a leg wound and three broken ribs, not to say anything about the bruises, and here you come strutting in as if..."

"My, what a splendid mother goose you are, Elder Modor." Berhtulf flashed her a toothy grin that looked rather horrifying due to his swollen and miscoloured face. "But now please shut up or my ears will fall off, adding to my injuries."

He had made the remark in the language of the Mark, and the Riders in earshot laughed, causing Ioreth to blush angrily. But she stood her ground. Her forefinger mercilessly dug into the young man's bandaged chest. "You impertinent whelp! If you mean to insult me, you should at least have the courage to do so in the Common Speech, so I can understand you."

Grabbing her hand, Grimboern intervened. "Mistress Ioreth, I assure you he meant no offence. He just...he just compared your... your way of scolding him and your talkativeness to..."

"To what?" The healer's angry eyes flitted from Berhtulf to Grimboern and back. "To what, Captain? It is not the first time I hear your men address me like that, and it does not make my work easier, you know." Heaving a breath, she folded her arms in front of her chest. "Well now, Captain, what does that _elda moda_ mean, they always call me?"

An expression of utter relief spread over Grimboern's face. "_Ealder Modor_ it is, Mistress Ioreth. It means _grandmother_ in the language of the Mark and it is used as a term of respect towards elderly women."

Ioreth's mouth opened, but no word came out. Where her cheeks had shown angry red spots before, they now literally glowed with embarrassment. Finally she closed her mouth and cast the man in front of her an insecure glance. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

Éowyn almost pitied her. "No, Mistress Healer," she chimed in to end the embarrassing situation. "Ealder Modor is an honorary term in the Mark."

Slowly the old woman turned to Berhtulf. "So I have done you wrong, lad, haven't I? Though you really should have stayed in bed and..."

Stepping close, the young man put his large forefinger across her lips. "Hush, Ealder Modor. You have not done me wrong at all, so don't say anything. And I also called you Mother Goose and surely you looked like one the way you approached me." His phrasing of the Common Speech was impeccable though heavily accented. Ioreth stared at him in surprise.

"A mother goose? Me?"

Berhtulf grinned. "Well, you didn't flap your wings, but I assure you: that forefinger of yours was much alike the beak of an angry goose."

"Ah, you rascal." Angrily the old healer swatted at the young man's head, but with that typical broad grin of his, Berhtulf stooped and pecked her on the cheek before continuing his way to one of the sickrooms.

"Captain Grimboern. I expect your men to behave in a proper and respectful way and leave my healers alone." The Warden's voice was rather high-pitched and Éowyn understood only too well why the Riders called him billy-goat. Grimboern opened his mouth to answer, but before he could utter a word, Ioreth herself intervened. With sparkling eyes she positioned herself in front of the old man, her arms akimbo.

"With all due respect, Master Warden, but in what kind of world are you living? What is wrong with a hearty peck? And how can it show disrespect? You want them to leave your healers alone? These men risked their lives to protect those healers, and not only them. And mind you, they are prepared to do it again should it be necessary. Have you ever given any thought to how their commitment to their comrades' needs eases our load of work? Yes, Master Warden, they might be wild and unruly and rough, but they do not show any disrespect. On the contrary, I assure you they hold us healers in high esteem, all of them. And that is more than can be said of some Gondoreans. And what is proper behaviour under the circumstances we live under? Will you next demand they should greet any orcs storming the ward politely before cutting them down?"

"Peace, Mistress Ioreth." Fighting not to laugh at the old healer's curtain-lecture, Éowyn spoke up. "As far as I understand habits and rules of proper behaviour differ somewhat in Gondor and the Riddermark. But nevertheless, Master Warden, you can rest assured that no Rohir would behave in an indecent way towards any of the healers. Their profession is regarded as a very honourable one in the Mark. And if Mistress Ioreth feels insulted by that young Rider's behaviour, even if no insult was intended, one word from her would be enough to make him apologise and never behave like that towards her again."

From the Warden's jerking larynx she guessed he found it difficult to keep his composure, but anyway the old man never got a chance to say something, because Ioreth audibly cleared her throat and then broke into another vigorous speech of defence of the Riders of Rohan.

**ooo**

Éowyn was glad to be able to shut the door or her room behind her. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she heaved a breath. How could it be that the simple fact of being up and about for not more than a handful of hours could tire her out like that? But then it had been the first time she had been outside for a bit longer, been walking, and what she had found the most demanding challenge, been talking to that Steward.

The air in the small room was fresh, thanks to the open window, and when she lifted her eyes to its sun-lit square, she gasped with surprise. There, on the high windowsill sat a small earthenware pot, glazed in brown and green, planted with such an abundance of heart's ease that some of them spilled over the brim of the pot. The small yellow and blue blossoms bravely lifted their tiny faces above the dark green foliage, catching the rays of the pale spring sun. _Three faces in a hood_ the children of the Mark called them, and often she had collected the flowers on the sandy patches near the riverbanks to please her mother, who had used them to dye wool. Little had she known then about the virtue of the plant against all kinds of chest complaints. Did whoever had put the pot there know about the flower's virtues? A smile crept into her face as she touched the leaves. Living green and tiny blossoms, creator of joyful colours and helper against many an ailment. What a mighty power in such a small body, what a token of persistence, of life conquering death. She moved her pillow to the foot of the bed, so she could see the flowers while lying down. She needed to rest, just for a short while. Lowering herself, careful not to bump her broken arm anywhere, she lay down on top of the coverlet. The arm was throbbing slightly and her bruised shoulder gave her some discomfort, too, but her right hand was warm, despite her exhaustion. Gathering the shawl closer around herself, she curled up, her gaze never leaving the flowers on the windowsill. Heart's ease, simple, sturdy guardian of life... Vivid colours against a pale blue sky. Slowly her eyelids drooped.

**ooo**

When she woke again she found that someone had spread a blanket over her while she had been sleeping. She felt recovered, but the pain in her arm had worsened and for a moment she even thought that might have caused her to wake up. But then she noticed the noise, though muffled by door and walls. Slamming doors, heavy, booted steps and voices calling. The wounded from Anorien had arrived. Elfhelm was back.

She had just risen and ordered her clothes when there was a sharp rap at the door and Marshal Elfhelm entered. A tall, haggard man in his early fifties, beard and braids already heavily shot with grey, he was nevertheless every inch the accomplished Rider and warrior. But now his tired face and sagging shoulders bore undeniable witness of his exhaustion. His mail shirt was ripped at his right sleeve, and though the worst dirt and grime had obviously been cleaned off, his clothes and leather cuirass were dirty and there was a smear of rust on the bridge of his nose.

"Éowyn, hál." His sharp, cerulean eyes searched her face, his straight brows knotted in a frown. "They told me you were sleeping, but the Steward, Lord Faramir, has convened a counsel to inform the leaders of the various troops in town and the lords of Minas Tirith of the present situation." He grinned lopsidedly. "I'm bloody sure some of those lords are only too happy about every Eorling that stays outside their precious city. But be that as it may, I told the Steward that as you were the only member of Eorl's House present you were to be regarded as underking in Éomer King's absence and should attend, too."

She raised her brows. "Did you? And what did that Gondorean say?"

Elfhelm shrugged. "He agreed. Actually said he thought it a good idea. But I do not care overmuch what those Gondoreans think anyway. I'm not willing to bow to their manners and customs. Not under the given circumstances. We lost nearly a hundred Riders and have more than three-hundred wounded that severely that they will need the healers' treatment. And I will say nothing about the horses. Gondor is our ally and we fulfil our oaths, but I will not bow to Gondorean fancies."

Éowyn nodded. "When are we supposed to assemble and where?"

"In one hour, in Lord Faramir's room here in the Houses of Healing." With a sigh the Marshal passed one of his large hands over his eyes, and for a split second it seemed to Éowyn as if his fatigue had doubled. "Éowyn, I'll have to clean up a bit and I would like to have a look at Acwuld before the counsel, so I better get going."

"Acwuld? He's wounded?" She remembered him well. A man in his thirties, he had been the Marshal's standard bearer for nearly ten years now, a skilled and proud warrior and a bear of a man. Elfhelm nodded.

"To tell the truth, I don't know if there is any hope for him. Those beasts slashed his mount's belly and he fell under his horse. But those Gondorean healers have worked wonders on some of our wounded, so I convinced him to hold on, but..." He shrugged, not finishing the sentence, his lips compressed to a thin line. Reaching out, Éowyn gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

"Go then, Elfhelm. I'll be at the Steward's in time."

As soon as the marshal had left the room, her thoughts turned to the council ahead. She felt mentally fresh and up to it, but the throbbing in her broken arm was giving her increasing trouble. Should she ring for the healers to give her something against the pain lest it reduce her concentration and alertness in the council? She dismissed the thought. The healers certainly had all hands full with the arriving wounded. She sat down on the edge of the bed and poured herself some water. Drinking it in small sips, she willed the pain away, but to no avail. With a thump she put down the cup on the bedside table. She would go to the Eorlingas' wards. Certainly one of the healers would be able to give her some painkiller, preferably meadowsweet.

As soon as she turned into the main corridor that led from the general treatment rooms to the wards, she spotted Elfhelm's tall figure amongst the men who were attending to injured men, helping them to slowly walk to the wards or carrying them on pallets.

"What about Acwuld?"

Elfhelm slowly shook his head. "The healers say both his thigh bones are broken and also his pelvis in several places. They cannot set the last. And even if his bones healed, he would not be able to sit again, let alone walk. And..." Elfhelm hesitated, his tired face full of concern. "They said they would have to... to amputate him. For otherwise there would be no chance of survival anyway."

Éowyn clenched her hand. _No chance of survival anyway. _Was that not what they all were facing? What pains had that man endured in one of those rocking wains all the way back to Minas Tirith? And to what avail? None. Only to lengthen his agony and on top of all to be told he would stay crippled. "I cannot imagine he would like to live on like that, a legless burden to his family." Her voice was harsh and determined.

Elfhelm grimaced. "No, certainly not. But I was not talking about his legs, Éowyn. The healers can set them, but with the smashed pelvis they would be useless anyway. What the healers are suggesting is to amputate his testicles."

"What?" Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears. What in Morgoth name had got into those Gondoreans? To geld an Eorling, a renowned Rider!

Elfhelm winced. "His balls got literally pulped. I..." Raising his hands in a helpless gesture, the marshal searched for words. "I've never seen anything like that, Éowyn. Swollen to the size of a goat's udder. And he refuses to be sedated."

Éowyn shuddered, imagining the pain the poor man must be suffering. At that moment a group of mail-clad Riders emerged from the treatment room, carrying a pallet. Acwuld. Elfhelm heaved a breath. "He demands a clean and honourable death. And that is all we can give him."

Éowyn nodded. "Will you...?"

Elfhelm shook his head. "No, his oath-brother Swidbert is with him. But I will be at his side. We'll carry him into the yard of one of the wards for he wants to see the sky."

By now the men carrying Acwuld had reached them. The standard bearer's face was bathed in sweat and contorted with pain, but seeing his marshal, a twisted shade of a smile curved his lips. "Told you so, Marshal," he whispered and then closed his eyes.

They followed the pallet bearers to the ward. When the Riders had lowered Acwuld beside the small water basin Elfhelm removed the jewelled dagger he wore on his belt and placed it beside his standard bearer's head.

"For your son, Acwuld. To remember his brave father." Acwuld opened his eyes and Elfhelm squeezed his hand before stepping back to give room to Swidbert. The oath-brothers' eyes locked, and then Swidbert drew his dagger and placed its tip on Acwuld's chest.

_A clean death._ Éowyn swallowed. A clean death was all this brave man would get and even that was more than most of those in the yard could hope for. Acwuld's face was clam, and placing his hand over his oath-brother's that held the dagger, he whispered something. Swidbert nodded and turned to the men now crowding around them in the yard. "Eorl's Ride. He wants you to sing Eorl's Ride."

For a split second there was silence, and then Elfhelm broke into song, his low-pitched baritone ringing through the yard.

"He rode from the North

Fierce and fearless

Leod's scion

Eorl the Young..."

All around them men joined in and from the rich bass at her right Éowyn realised that Grimboern was standing there. With a faint smile Acwuld closed his eyes and then the dagger sank into his heart. _A clean death. _Éowyn threw her head back, and like a she-wolf, joining in the howling of her pack, she joined in the song.

"Engaged man and mount

In raging battle

He won the Mark

With sword and spear.

Homestead of heroes

And unmatched horses

Blood he gave

For soil and sun."

"What is going on here?" Her voice loud and sharp, Mareth pushed through the crowd until she came to stand at the foot of Acwuld's pallet. Her mouth opened. The dead man's eyes were closed, and there was but a small stain of blood where the dagger had pierced his chest, but the experienced healer did not need more than a single look. "You beasts!" Mareth nearly choked on her words, her voice trembling with anger and disgust. "You barbarians. How could you..."

"We could, because he wanted us too, Mistress Healer. And we won't take any insult from you." Elfhelm's voice was edged with steel, his face a stony mask of disdain. Wordlessly Mareth turned on her heel and left the yard.

Out of nowhere suddenly Anwen appeared beside the pallet. For a split second Éowyn felt complied to pull her aside to prevent another outbreak of hysterics and tears, but the girl's face was absolutely calm. Slowly she reached out and stroked the bloody spot on Acwuld's chest and then pulled up the blanket to cover his face. Stepping back to give room to the men who now lifted the pallet to carry their comrade to the burying ground, she came to stand beside Éowyn, a strangely serene smile on her face.

"Lhindir promised to do that for me if the enemy should break into the Houses. He told me it would be fast and I need not be afraid, but nevertheless I have been all the time." Her smile deepened. "Until now. I know now that he told me the truth."

Still smiling, Anwen continued her way to one of the sickrooms, and only when Grimboern, swearing under his breath, caught her attention, Éowyn realised that she had been staring after the girl. She turned towards him and found him vigorously wiping his eyes. Sensing her gaze, he looked at her. "I never could stand seeing a woman suffer, and that little girl..." He shrugged. "You certainly know you are facing dark times when the only important promise a man can give his sweetheart is a fast and clean death."

* * *

**Annotations:**

**éored: **(Old English/Rohirric) A fighting-force, most likely cavalry units of 120 men.

**Cynesweoster:** (Old English/Rohirric) King's sister

**heart's ease/ three faces in a hood**: viola tricolor; wild pansy

In herbalism used against cough, chest complaints, whooping cough

* * *

Many thanks to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien, and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who helped me with the language.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Heart's Ease**

* * *

_He looked at her, and being a man whom pity deeply stirred, it seemed to him that her loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart. And she looked at him and she saw the grave tenderness in his eyes, and yet knew, for she was bred among men of war, that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark would outmatch in battle._

quoted from:_**The Steward and the King; The Return of the King; Book V **_by** J.R.R. Tolkien.**

* * *

**Minas Tirith, March 22nd, 3019**

When she woke the dim light of dawn streamed through the open window. Slowly she sat up, her mind still lingering on the last shreds of the nightmare she had had. She did not remember much, only that she had been lying face down in cold mud, a weight she knew to be a booted foot pressing her deeper into it while she had been desperately groping for her sword without being able to reach it. She did not remember having dreamt that before, but it fitted in with the patterns of her usual nightmares. But the reason she had woken was much more mundane. With an angry groan she gathered the folds of the nightshirt and went over to the chamber pot. Yards of cloth! Those Gondoreans really had a way to make people's lives difficult!

Having done with her ablutions, she thought of getting dressed. Perhaps watching the sun rise over the ragged ridge of the Mountains of Shadow would lighten her heart. She hesitated, pondering. She certainly could just put that ridiculous lounge robe on top of the night gown, thus making one atrociousness cover the other, but she would not be able to lace those straw-soled shoes with one hand. Pouring herself some water for a fast wash, she decided to go barefoot.

The pain in her broken arm had lessened considerably and what was more, the throbbing had given way to a dragging kind of pain, a certain sign of the healing process having started. Only that the few days they might have left would not suffice for a healing of any kind. She angrily bit her lower lip. It was no use to fool herself. She had better prepare for whatever last stand they had to make. She needed to train to regain strength; to train and to eat. Even the mere task of washing herself was strenuous, but then she had not eaten anything save the breakfast she had had with the Steward the morning before and one of those tiny meat pasties they had served at the council in the evening.

Attending said council had been an ordeal with her arm pounding violently, but for the sake of Elfhelm her presence had been useful. Never, not even in the darkest days of the Worm's machinations had she seen the marshal that much on edge. Éowyn was sure he had held back only for her sake. He had informed the Gondoreans with curt words, actually speaking solely to the Steward and taking no notice of the other men being present, and he had only responded to the Steward's questions, ignoring any remarks from the other lords. Though the Steward's room was larger than her own, it had been overcrowded and the mixture of different scents and perfumes the lords present had applied to themselves had nearly made her gag. With the commanders of the various troops agreeing on what parts of the town were to be frequented by which divisions, where and when rations were to be issued and how they were to participate in the manning of the walls and the guarding of the only provisionally secured gates, the important part of their conference had been closed, and Éowyn had been desperate to leave by then. The Steward's man had served wine and small pasties to those attending, but she had refused both. She had had no chance to get any painkillers and the constantly increasing pain had worn her mask of composure thin and caused her to break out in a sweat. To her utter embarrassment and fury she had felt beads of perspiration gather on her upper lip, just at the moment when the Steward had looked over to her, while the Captain of some brigade from Lamedon had complained about his soldiers having been taken advantage of at yesterday's distribution of arms. The Steward's face had not given away any hint that he had noticed her state, but he had motioned to his man, and a short while later Beregond had brought her one of the typical lidded mugs of the Houses of Healing.

His face displaying nothing but courtly politeness, the Steward had nodded to her. "You must excuse me, my lady. I forgot you are not overly fond of wine. I should have ordered some tea earlier."

Hiding her irritation, she had opened the lid, only to notice at once that he had provided her with a mug of steaming meadowsweet-tea. She had sipped her tea, nibbled at a pasty Elfhelm had more or less forced into her hand, too relieved to gainsay him and had simply let the men's talk wash over her as it turned to minor problems. When she had finally left for her room, she had fallen asleep as soon as the woman who helped her undress had left the room.

Standing beside her bed, she flexed her shoulders. No problems there either. Her bruises obviously were fading, and with them the limitation of her movements. A slight queasiness was all that was giving her trouble, and certainly that could be mended by eating something. Searching the bedside table, she found three nut cakes and a number of ginger pieces in the small earthenware pot. She had just popped one of the spicy-sweet cubes into her mouth when a soft knock at the door caught her attention. It was Anwen who entered, the veil and the apron the healers normally wore removed. The girl looked tired, and Éowyn spotted several stains on the grey garment where the blood of the wounded had soaked through the apron.

"Good morning, Lady Éowyn. I've finished my work for tonight, but the Warden is a bit worried and bid me to find out if you needed some more painkillers before I went to bed."

"The Warden?" Éowyn found it difficult to imagine the old man having stayed awake and kept any overview in last night's chaos and did not really believe he had even remembered she existed. Or was he an early riser? A lot of old people were, so that was more likely.

Anwen nodded. "Yes, my lady. He's about to retire too, and as he keeps the account of the more potent potions like poppy syrup and henbane seeds, so no misuse can happen, he would like to know if he should leave some for you." Éowyn's disbelief must have shown, for the girl hurried to explain further. "When the lord Faramir sent his man to fetch some potion for you last night, the Warden wanted to sent you some poppy, but Mareth remembered that you preferred meadowsweet and insisted on sending that, but he doubted it was strong enough."

Mareth! The mention of the healer's name did nothing to improve Éowyn's mood. How could she have erred that much in the judging of a person? "The draught was strong enough, Anwen, thank you." Her voice was clipped and she was about to send the girl away when she realised that with Anwen's help there was a chance to get dressed properly. So she asked for her garment and the young healer brought the clothes from where the woman had hung them last night. Holding the shift, Anwen frowned.

"To get you into this I would have to move your broken arm, my lady, and I don't think that would be a good idea. So if you don't mind, it would be much easier and better for your arm if you just put the underdress and the kirtle on top of the nightgown. And if you want to go outside it would be warmer, too. The wind has freshened up a bit."

With Anwen's help getting dressed took but a few minutes, but when the girl turned to leave, Éowyn saw her sway slightly. With one step she was beside the healer, catching her elbow and leading her to the wicker chair. "Feeling faint?"

Anwen nodded.

"Did you eat at all?"

Again a mute nod, and then some mumbled explanation: "There was not much time to eat anything, but like always when there is much work, they had prepared honeyed water for the healers to drink. And Lhindir had given me your cherries, telling me to chew one if I felt hungry or wobbly."

Éowyn gritted her teeth. A night of strenuous work on nothing but a handful of sweets! And she had thought the Riders' rations on their way to Mundburg to be poor. Brusquely she shoved the nut cakes into Anwen's hands. "Eat. They will do you good."

Colouring with embarrassment, the girl started to nibble a cake and Éowyn poured her a mug of water. "Take your time. You are not going to leave this room before you have eaten at least one cake. And have some water, too."

The young healer had two in the end, taking the third one with her, and Éowyn could not help feeling convinced it would end up in Lhindir's mouth.

**ooo**

There was a noticeable coldness in the air, but being an early riser by habit, she knew it for the ordinary morning chill that would give way as soon as the sun was up. Nevertheless she was quite thankful for the additional layer of cloth her nightgown provided her with as she stepped out into the garden. With its orderly patterns of regular squares of lawn, its straight paths and lines of trees it lay empty and lifeless in the grey light. She turned towards the stairs that led up to the walls when out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement to her left. Somebody was standing near the pine, the first tree in the last row, and when she stopped for a closer look a grey figure stepped out of the shadow of the tree. The Steward. A wave of anger rose inside her. _Why couldn't they leave her alone for once? _But she immediately checked herself. It was no private garden and anyway there was worse company than the sharp-eyed Steward. Forcing her features to expressionless politeness, she walked up to him, and when they finally met, she was surprised at how tired his face looked despite the faint smile that played around his lips.

"Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?" His eyes were clear, but there were shadows under them and his shoulders sagged though he pulled himself up the moment he felt her scrutinizing gaze. In the Mark she would have asked any man who looked like that for the reason, be he lord or lowling, but perhaps it was not appropriate in Gondor? Lowering her head in a greeting, she decided not to care for Gondorean prissiness.

"Good morning, my Lord Steward. Thanks to your care I did sleep well, but you don't look like you did. Does your wound give you trouble?"

He shook his head. "No, my lady. It's healing adequately. I..." He hesitated and cleared his throat. "I had a talk with Lord Badhor after the council last night, and what he told me disturbed my night's rest somehow."

Éowyn felt uneasy. Could it be he knew? Could it be that old councillor had told him about the circumstances of his father's death? Had not Éomer told her Greyhame had advised the healers to withhold that news as long as possible? She cast him an enquiring look, not knowing what to say, and wordlessly they started to walk towards the battlement.

"Did you know about it?" The Steward's question caught her by surprise. "My father's death, I mean," he added with a sad smile.

She felt her throat go dry. But he probably knew anyway, and what use was it to deny? She'd be better to keep things straight and clear. "My brother told me about it. And the king's squire mentioned it in connection with his worries for his kinsman who had looked into some similar kind of the Enemy's devices."

The Steward nodded. "Master Meriadoc told me about the Palantir of Isengard, but these orbs are no devices of the Enemy, my lady, though no doubt he can use them for his evil aims."

"What is there in this Middle Earth he cannot corrupt and make use of?" The bitterness in her voice caused the Steward to stop and look at her with that earnest expression that reminded her so painfully of Théodred.

"No, Lady Éowyn. Believe me, there still are things and people beyond his reach. And even those he can reach, he can not totally bend to his will if they are strong at heart, though certainly he can twist and weaken them."

She gave a derisive snort. This idiotic notion of hope these Gondoreans clung to! Had she not seen what had happened to Théoden King? And even Gríma the Cursed had not always been treacherous. She was not sure when exactly he had started to change, to take side with the wizard at Isengard and when all his up to then wise council had become crooked and evil, aiming at nothing but to weaken Eorl's House. Frithuswith had been the first to notice, but even to her Théoden King had refused to listen.

Their gazes met, and with an angry jerk of her head she looked away, irritated by the calm depth of his eyes. "His arm reached as far as Meduseld, my lord." She silently cursed the brittleness of her own voice.

At once she felt a soft touch at her elbow. "My lady, forgive me. I do not know what precisely happened in Rohan, nor what caused you to ride with the host to Gondor's help. But whatever it was, given how much your people value prowess in battle, do you not feel you overcame it, smashing the Dark One's mightiest captain?"

Éowyn frowned, unsure what he was aiming at. More to gain time than anything else she continued towards the battlement. "Théoden King's mind was darkened that much by the Enemy's evil whispers that he imprisoned my brother," she finally said.

The Steward nodded. "That certainly is grievous, but did he not realise his fault? I was informed that he himself named Éomer King of Rohan before he died on the battlefield."

"So he did," she admitted. "But things would have ended very differently had not Gandalf Greyhame come to Meduseld to wake Théoden King from his mental decline." She swallowed, willing down the bitter lump that formed in her throat. Greyhame had come, bringing with him that kingly stranger, dour and war-worthy, like a hero out of the tales of old. She felt the heat of tears rise, and angrily blinked them away. What did it matter now that Isildur's heir had returned to Gondor, what did it matter that men flocked to his banner, what that her brother sang his praise?

"My lady, I do not ask you to hope, for there certainly is not more than a fool's hope. But I beg you not to despair." The Steward's voice was soft but clearly audible. "Look about you, Éowyn of Rohan, and see the life and beauty that still prevails, and prevail like it. Do not let darkness conquer your heart and mind, for then our enemy will surely win."

She could not but smile lopsidedly. "That's more or less what I told Master Meriadoc but two days ago. Obviously I should stick to my own advice more stably."

He nodded, that strange serious smile of his deepening. "Don't think that my heart is without doubt, my lady. But doubt, fear and despair are the most fell weapons our enemy can wield, and only if we see them for what they are, can we withstand them. And we cannot withstand if we stand alone and isolated. We are human, my lady. We need the encouragement of human company, and our people need ours. If we lock up into ourselves, without confidence in friend or kin, our loneliness and doubt will finally drive us into despair and madness." He heaved a breath and then added: "As happened to my father."

Éowyn bit her lip. What was Éomer's imprisonment compared to Denethor's attempt to burn his son alive? Carefully schooling her voice, she said: "I'm sorry you had to learn it while you are still recovering."

Faramir shrugged. "Lord Bahor tried to keep it from me, but I mentioned that I wanted to go down to Rath Dínen today to pay my respects to my dead father. So what could he do when his attempt to convince me that I was still too weak to do so was of no avail? He had to tell me." He paused for a moment, and then the faint smile was back on his face. "I'm afraid I'm quite good at getting information out of people."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "So I had better be careful in your company."

Suddenly serious again, he shook his head. "No, my lady. I would abhor the idea that you told me anything you had not meant to tell me."

They had reached the wall by now and climbed the stair. The breeze was much stronger up here and Éowyn pulled the shawl close. Immediately she felt his gaze on her.

"Have they not provided you with a cloak, my lady?"

With a nonchalant shrug she tried to disperse his worries. "No. They probably did not think it necessary because they could not imagine me being up and about this early. And the days are fairly warm already."

They turned their faces north-east now, and for some time they stood side by side, taking in the view. The Pelennor stretched out to the still dark band of the Great River, and Éowyn noticed that the number of fires had decreased. Far ahead the black wall of the Ephel Dúath loomed and the eastern skies were covered by a vast canopy of threatening clouds, leaving out only a thin strip of clear sky just above the mountains. And through that strip now the fierce red glow of the rising sun pierced, slowly changing to orange and yellow, casting the lower edge of the clouds into a ghostly light. They stood in silence, and all of a sudden Éowyn felt as lonely and forlorn as never before. Somewhere at the foot of those forbidding mountains was her brother. Was he feeling as miserable as she, facing the ever-growing clouds? But then, being that close to the mountains, could he see them at all or was his sight hampered by the ridge itself? She clenched her fist. Was he marching heedlessly into the enemy's maw? Gritting her teeth, she checked herself. It was no use to give in to hysterics. Éomer had known what he had been doing when he had left, and so had the others. Into the Enemy's maw they might walk, but open-eyed and with a sound reason. Her gaze wandered north. Somewhere over there was the Black Gate, the place where they would meet the Enemy's assault. Turning for further information to the Steward, she stopped dead, holding her breath with surprise.

She had noticed his tiredness before, but looking over to the mountains of Mordor, his face was grey with exhaustion and the line of his mouth did nothing to conceal the pain he felt.

"My lord?"

He did not hear her, lost in anguish. Reluctantly, she touched his elbow. "My Lord Faramir? Do you hear me?"

He blinked and shuddered, like someone coming out of a bad dream. Looking down into her worried face, he sighed. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, my lady, but as much as I try, I cannot forgive him."

Thinking of his father! She should have known. She swallowed, trying to make her voice sound even. "My lord, we must assume that he was not himself in the end, otherwise he would not have tried to kill his son, and..."

He shook his head with a mirthless smile. "You get me wrong, my lady. I certainly understand that he wanted to kill me, believing the city lost and seeing me helpless and faint. No, I even understand the cursed logic of burning me and himself, thus leaving no corpse for the enemy to defile..."

For a fleeting second Éowyn thought of Háma, her uncle's doorward, whose dead body Saruman's Uruks had hacked to pieces in front of the Hornburg, of the poor herders of whom they had never found more than smashed skulls and gnawed bones... Yes, Denethor certainly had had a reason to burn himself.

The Steward heaved a breath. "I can accept his wrath at my return from Ithilien before the siege and him wishing me dead in Boromir's stead."

"What?" She could not believe her ears. Not in his darkest state of confusion would Théoden King have uttered anything like that.

Seeing her bafflement, the Steward shrugged. "He was beside himself, thinking that had he been in my place, my brother would have brought him... something my father thought a mighty weapon. I told him he was deceiving himself. But I understand that his wrath was born out of worry and care for Gondor. I am even prepared to accept that he sent me on what everyone in the council knew to be a suicide mission to Osgiliath the next morning. But I cannot forgive that he sent soldiers into useless peril for nothing but disappointment and hurt pride."

Stunned, she watched as in a flash of anger and frustration he kicked the wall.

"My lord,..."

He swivelled round. "No, Lady Éowyn. No captain has the right to do so, and who was he at that moment, if not Gondor's Captain General? He should have given up the garrison at Osgiliath and drawn the men back behind the Causeway Forts. It was folly and I regret that I went, but I did not know what else to do when in council he asked if there still was a captain in Gondor to do his will."

His shaved cheeks did nothing to conceal the bulging of his jaw muscles as he gritted his teeth, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"I lost one third of my men that day, and it is of no help that those I led came with me of their free will. You are the daughter of warriors, lady, you know that a captain's order may cost lives and lead to injuries and I do not shrink from that responsibility, but that day I led my men into battle without any chance and without any plausible reason."

She could not help feeling fascinated by his unexpected display of temper. His annoying composure gone, she saw the warrior, male strength and hardly controlled fury. And then it was gone like the sudden flash of resin wood thrown on a fire. He heaved a breath, and only his clenched fists gave away how much it took him to rein in his feelings.

"And it would have gone worse but for Mithrandir's intervention, for he held the Nazgul at bay and protected the transport of the wounded back to the city. That is of all those who were still fit to be transported."

He turned away from her, once more looking out over the Pelennor and it took some time before he continued, his voice low and bitter.

"There were some, my lady, good men, brave soldiers, who we had to leave behind as their injuries were too severe and there were too few wains to transport all."

Éowyn gasped "You did not let them fall into the hands of those vile creatures, did you?"

With a grim smiled he turned to her. "No, my lady, certainly not. I stayed with the rearguard to keep the retreat from becoming a rout and I was the last to leave the Causeway Forts – and I left nobody living behind."

Their gazes met. Sorrow, anger, pain... Grey pools of everlasting grief. She turned her head, fearing the sudden burn of unshed tears behind her eyes.

"Those men trusted me, Éowyn, and I cannot forgive him, having reduced me to that." His voice was a mere whisper, and yet it caught her like a vice, threatening to crumble her composure into nothingness.

Her eyes still averted, she finally spoke. "Let us go down, my lord. Here is nothing that can ease your pain."

Coming down from the walls, they did not take the main path like the previous day but followed the one leading along the walls of the outer ramparts, and as they silently walked along the tile-covered path, she felt how she slowly regained the command of herself. All along the foot of the wall herb beds with shade-loving plants stretched, most of them still only recognisable through the small orderly labels, but when they reached the far end of the path where the herbs she had already noticed the day before grew, she spotted the abundance of heart's ease on what seemed like a small artificial slope. Tiny blue, violet and yellow blossoms were cascading from halfway up the wall down to the path. How could it be that she had not seen this beautiful patch before? And how cleverly the gardeners had arranged them, making sure they got the rather dry and slightly sandy ground they preferred. Only when she felt the Steward's enquiring look did she realise that she was smiling. "I did not expect to find these in such abundance in this garden, though they certainly are very useful."

A slight frown appeared on his brow. "Has everything to be useful to please you, my lady?"

His voice was soft and serious, causing her to bristle instinctively. She was not going to talk about the emotions this simple beauty stirred inside her, nor would she tell him about the encouragement she had felt finding that pot on her windowsill. Breathing deep, she pulled herself together. She was behaving ridiculously. Schooling her features, she turned to the Steward: "My lord, I would not spurn usefulness if I were you. Certainly they are beautiful too, especially at this time of the year when there is not much blooming and they are proving the end of winter, but does not that beauty add to the plant's usefulness, as it lightens our hearts?"

"So you like them?" His voice was even, but she did not know what to make of the expression in his eyes. Was there really a hint of self-consciousness? It probably was just a trick of the light. With a last look at the flowers she turned to walk back towards the Houses.

"I certainly like them. Who does not? But I did not know they..." She shrugged before continuing her attempt to explain. "Well, they seem to have a certain importance in Gondor I do not know about."

The Steward shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know about any, my lady. But what makes you think there is?"

"Someone put a pot of them in my room yesterday. And it certainly is nice to have something colourful and living in all this cold, white stone, this death-like order and constraining walls..." She stopped abruptly, realising what she was saying. Why did she have the tendency to make a fool out of herself in front of this man? "I'm sorry, my Lord Steward. I'm being unreasonable. There certainly is nothing to complain about with regard to my room and as well the quarters of the men are better than anything we could ever have expected, not to say anything about the tireless efforts of the healers. It's just that everything seems to be white here. It all is so colourless, so..." She shrugged, not knowing how to proceed.

"But I thought you liked white." His gaze swept over her garment.

Éowyn shook her head. "No, certainly not. It is just the easiest dress to put on with my broken arm. Yet it is not unfitting as white is the colour of mourning in the Mark. Winter's garb."

The Steward nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Then the marble of the White City must be truly depressing for you."

They walked in silence for about half an hour, breathing the fresh morning air, until the Steward's man called them for breakfast. As the previous day Beregond had laid the table for them in the alcove near the pine tree but additional to the food he had provided then, today there also were boiled eggs and a small bowl with finely chopped chives.

Pouring her some tea, the Steward smiled at her. "What would you like me prepare for you, my lady? Cheese and honey or something more hearty?"

"An egg would be nice, and some chives with it." Éowyn disliked depending on his assistance, but she had to admit to herself that if she tried to peel the shell off the egg on her own, she would most probably create a mess that was far more embarrassing than any need for help could be. Soon a buttered chunk of bread dipped into chives and an egg cut into halves were placed in front of her, and when she started to eat she realised how hungry she had been. They ate in silence for a while, and though she found it difficult in the end, she finished bread and egg and then asked for another mug of the fruity-tasting tea. Refilling her cup, the Steward urged her to eat some more, but she declined. "Thank you, my lord. I will gladly take another cup of tea, but I already feel more than full."

He nodded, and only then Éowyn noticed that he himself had not finished his first slice of bread yet. Seeing her frown, he shrugged. "I know I have to eat and I'm trying, but I don't have any appetite. I have talked about it to the healers and they take it for a symptom of the Black Breath, as almost all patients suffering from it show it."

"So it is still giving you trouble?"

He shrugged. "Now and then. I tire easily and I feel moody and exhausted, but I am convinced I can overcome it, time given."

_Time given! What time did this man think they had? _But she only lowered her head in a polite nod. "Certainly. But perhaps you should try some ginger my lord, to invigorate your appetite. I got some cubes from Prince Imrahil's housekeeper, and not only are they very tasty, but they also seem to have a very positive influence."

A sudden smile lightened the Steward's features. "Ah, good old Hwinril. Her husband certainly is the best cook and baker in all of Gondor. I'll pay a visit to Amrothos later, perhaps I should ask him to convince her to send me some of those dainties. But I'm afraid I'll have to lay down a bit first. It is no use to fool myself about my state of health."

Éowyn put down the cup. "Then I will not keep you any longer from your needed and well-deserved rest, my lord. I intend to look in on the wounded Eorlingas and with the number of freshly wounded that will take quite some time."

"You shouldn't go right now. It is still early and wounded and healers might be busy with the regular morning ablutions."

With slight embarrassment she realized how early it was. "You are right. I had better wait some time. And I can use it to exercise my hand anyway. I did not train yesterday for I slept away most of the day."

"Did you?"

She did not know what to make of the expression on his face and shrugged. "I am sure my body needed it and it helped my healing. But as I am feeling better today it is time to start training in earnest. I had better send for Elfhelm. I need a knife, or even better a dagger. I do not want to be unarmed should the enemy conquer Mundburg, and most important of all: I do not want to be taken alive should that happen."

Wordlessly the Steward removed the dagger from his belt and shoved the sheathed weapon across the table. The sheath was made of dark brown leather and bore no decoration save the embossment of a stylized tree. The hilt consisted of almost black wood, smoothed by long and regular use and also the metal of the crossbar was black. Éowyn frowned. That was certainly not how she expected a Gondorean dress dagger to look.

"It's a ranger's weapon, my lady." The Steward's voice shook her out of her musings. Startled, she looked up. Was there laughter hidden under his seriousness? "It is meant to blend in with the surrounding shades of the woods as stealth is our sharpest weapon against a foe that outnumbers us heavily. So you will find no shining metal or decoration that might catch the sun or give away the bearer when the knife is unsheathed." He reached for the dagger and pulled it from its sheath. A slender, pointed blade with straight edges, blackened like the crossbar, the fuller running down almost the entire length of it. And then she gasped with surprise. The razor-sharp edges did not show the shine of honed steel, though honed they obviously were, glimmering in the faint morning sun like black ice. Black steel! It had to be black steel, harder and yet more flexible than any metal save mithril. This mysterious metal only Gondor possessed, treasured from ancient times when the Great Seamen brought it with them out of the West. She heaved a breath to calm herself. _A weapon of black steel, the dream of any warrior, strong enough to pierce the hide of a dragon._

"It has been a heirloom of my House since the days of Mardil. Take it my lady, and may it serve you well."

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "No, my lord. You cannot give me that. It..."

"I can. This and anything else you should desire, my lady. And anything I can give would repay only a small amount of what you did...for Gondor and for me."

Blushing furiously, she averted her gaze. How could eyes look that way, smiling and serious at the same time, filled with a warmth that... She was at a loss and rose to end the awkward situation. Rising likewise, he sheathed the dagger and held it out to her.

"Take it, my lady, for it would ease my heart to know you armed with Gondor's best."

Her fingers trembled as she took the knife and hid it in the folds of her shawl. "I will have it fixed to the splint so I'll be able to draw it." Her voice sounded agitated in her own ears but she could not help it.

The Steward smiled. "Do so, my lady. But let the healers guide you, so that your arm will not give you additional trouble."

She could not help a mirthless laugh. "My lord, what do you think my arm will matter the moment I have to draw this dagger?"

Their gazes met, and she saw the same sadness and resolve in his grey depths she knew her own eyes showed. He nodded and with a calm movement took her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

"I truly wish I could promise you life and happiness, Éowyn of Rohan. But as it is we had better prepare for death and sorrow."

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**Annotations:**

**White as colour of mourning **was widespread in European countries in the Middle Ages. The custom of wearing black garments as a general sign of mourning is not much older that 150 years.

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Many thanks to all who encouraged me and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who helped me with the language.


	9. Chapter 9

Many thanks to all of you who show interest in my story, and especially to those who took the trouble to review. So here finally comes the chapter for all who are interested in who put the pot with heart's ease in Éowyn's room. :)

And many, many thanks to **Lady Bluejay** for her help with the language. I know that some of you would have quite a good laugh at the sometimes really ridiculous mistakes I make (false friends :-[).

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**Chapter 9**

**King's Mushrooms**

"_They passed down the long ranks of waiting men with stern and unmoved faces. But when they had come almost to the end of the line one looked up, glancing keenly at the hobbit. A young man, Merry thought as he returned the glance, less in height and girth than most. He caught the glint of clear grey eyes; and then he shivered, for it came suddenly to him that it was the face of one without hope who goes in search of death."_

quoted from: **_"The Muster of Rohan"; The Return of the King; Book V _**by **J.R. **

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**Minas Tirith, 22****nd**** March, 3019, Third Age**

Éowyn closed the door of her room behind her, her heart still beating in her throat. Not able to control her excitement, she pulled the dagger out of her shawl, and jamming it against the bed with her knee, unsheathed it. What a weapon! Did it have a name, like that of the battle-tested swords? Did not that knife in the Lay of Luthien her mother had told her about have a name? She should have asked the Steward. But it was hers now, and did she not have the right to name it? Laying it down on the coverlet of her bed, she admired the craftsmanship. Clear, straight lines, razor-edged, with a slim spike, like the fang of a mythical beast. Her fingers glided down the fuller, and she felt her hand tremble with anticipation. She picked it up and held the blade up to the light to better admire the patterns typical of black steel. What a formidable blend of sober, deadly purposefulness and beauty!

"Swart Giecel." She had not intended to say it aloud, but she felt it was right the moment she uttered it. Black Icicle. A mixture of pride and joy flooded her. She had named her ultimate weapon. The one that would stay true and be her companion till her last breath. Holding it once more up to the sun, she relished in the subtle pattern of the steel that rather seemed to swallow the light instead of reflecting it. And then she froze, with the dagger still lifted. The flower-pot! Some of the blossoms seemed to have wilted, and a large part of the foliage hung feebly. Swiftly shoving the dagger below her pillow, she kicked the footstool to the window. Her searching fingers soon found her suspicion confirmed: The soil in the pot was as dry as dust. How could she not have thought of watering the flowers?

Stepping down from the stool, she took the heavy jug from the wash-stand. With her hand not yet fully under control it was difficult to rise it and when she wanted to step on the stool again, she nearly got entangled in the hem of her dress. Cursing, she put the jug on the windowsill and then lifted her skirts to step on the footstool again. How could such a simple task like watering flowers become such a challenge just because of a broken arm? And how many Riders had lost limbs in last week's battles, not just received an injury than would heel, time given? She frowned, remembering old Cuthred's tale that he sometimes still felt the hand, which had been bitten off by a warg more than twenty years ago. Shaking her head, she quashed the futile thought. There was no need to worry over a future that was not there.

Having no possibility to lift or part the foliage, she resorted to pouring the water as accurately as possible into the middle of the pot, stopping between the single flushes to give the soil time to soak it up. Apart from a few faded blossoms no real damage seemed to have occurred, and she knew heart's ease to be a more than hardy plant. Hardy, beautiful and a boon with all kinds of chest diseases, save for the coughing disease. But against the plague that swept over the plains each winter and early spring there was no help. One could only try to ease the suffering of the infected. Putting down the jug, she nipped out the withered flowers. Eight years old she had been when her mother had died of the coughing disease the very year her father had been slain by orcs, but having fallen ill herself and been drifting in and out of bouts of fever, she remembered little of that time, save the pungent taste of the heart's ease tea they had made her drink.

She sighed. The flower was one of those plants that had accompanied her through all her life, growing in Edoras as well as Aldburg. And it had been blooming on the southern slope below Meduseld that cold spring when Théodred had asked her to marry his friend Erwig of Westfold. She remembered she had stood like now, nipping blossoms of heart's ease, culling them to replenish the stores they had used over the winter when Théodred had approached her.

How many years had passed until then? Four...five? It seemed an eternity. Three years after Fréaláf's death, ten after Juthwara's... The loss of loved ones...the merciless meter of time. And Erwig had joined their number, ambushed on his way back to the Westfold after their betrothal. Could it really be that Eorl's House was cursed like Théodred had said?

She shook herself in an attempt to clear her mind. Erwig no doubt had been a good man, and she was sure they would have come to love each other, or at least enjoy each other's company, but she would not call him her love. Not even her lover as she had lain with him but once, after the festivities of their betrothal, and that had been more to please Théodred than out of real attraction. Not that she regretted having done so. Erwig had been kind and patient, and she had felt relieved that he had been so different from Fréaláf's youthful gangliness that making love to him had been totally different. A widower of similar age to Théodred's with three grown children and a late-comer of six, a boy being born two months early by a mother dying of the coughing disease, Erwig had agreed to Théodred's suggestion to have their first son adopted by the prince to become the future king of the Mark.

She wondered when in the years after Juthwara's death this idea had taken possession of her cousin. An heir of Eorl's line, born by her and begotten by a worthy Eorling, to be raised at Meduseld as Théodred's heir. He had supported her relation with Fréaláf, had faced down Théoden King, swearing he would make Éowyn's son his heir. And how she had longed to be married to that young Rider! Fréaláf "Freckles", the only man she had ever loved and given herself to without any restraint. And if she had had her own way he would have stayed the only one. But nevertheless she had agreed after his death to a union with Erwig out of duty to the Mark. Though certainly Théodred had also had her safety in mind, finding her a good husband and freeing her of the ever darker looming dread of being married off to Gríma the Worm. She grimaced with disgust. Not that she would have ever submitted herself to anything like that, even if it had been ordered by her uncle, but had Gandalf not come in time, what might have happened? She straightened her shoulders. Whatever it might have been, it would have resulted in a gutted Worm.

A knock at the door woke her from her gloomy musings and then Merry entered, smiling like summer-sun, a man of impressive height and muscular build in tow, whose facial expression at seeing her could only be described as awed.

"Good morning, lady Éowyn. This is Master Amathron, weapon smith of the Citadel."

The bulky man bowed, his right hand on his chest, and then cleared his throat, but instead of starting to speak, he just shot her another admiring look and held out a parcel wrapped in sackcloth to her. Seeing the smith's shyness, Merry intervened.

"Master Amathron has made a tool to train and strengthen our arms, my lady." Motioning to the parcel, he added. "I got a similar one. Just have a look yourself. It is marvellous and so practical."

Intrigued, Éowyn reached for the parcel, and obligingly the smith started to unwrap what he was carrying. Éowyn blinked. It was a short iron bar, just what she had mentioned to the Steward the other day, and yet what was held out to her now in the weapon smith's broad, calloused hands was a true masterpiece. The bar was about an ell long and consisted of three iron rods that had been twisted around each other. At both sides the ends of the rods had been bent outside, each one ending in what looked like a stylised knot. Thus whatever way one put it down, the bar would stand on four feet, the middle part of the bar well removed from the surface it had been put down on, easy to grip for a person who wanted to pick it up. And to ease that purpose further, said middle part was wrapped with several layers of thin suede strips. She took the rod, raising it shoulder-high. It had just the correct weight and fitted into her hand perfectly.

She turned to the smith. "I mentioned wanting an iron rod to the Steward, but this, Master Amathron, certainly surpasses anything I imagined. It is a perfect tool for the exercise I had on mind, and even the weight is exactly as I would have liked."

He blushed at her praise, but overcoming his embarrassment, finally spoke: "Well, my lady, when the Steward told me you needed something to train your sword-arm I sent my apprentice to weigh some of the Rohirric swords to get an idea. You see, your swords are somewhat shorter than the usual Gondorean ones, better fit for the use from horseback. This rod has exactly the weight of a captain's sword."

"He made a smaller one for me," Merry chipped in, and then turning to the smith he added: "I can understand how you got the weight right for the Lady Éowyn, but for me?"

Amathron smiled. "I asked a healer to measure the length of your arm and the breadth of your palm, my Lord Perian. Knowing the approximate length of a soldier's arm and the weight of a Rohirric sword it was not difficult to figure out what the bar had to be like for you."

"And I thought it was for some clothes!" Merry did not even try to conceal his surprise. Smiling, Éowyn let her thumb trail over the suede strips.

"You certainly are a master of your profession, Master Amathron, one that Gondor can be proud having. I will tell the Steward so, when I thank him for his consideration."

Bowing even lower than upon entering, the smith left the room, and raising an eyebrow, Éowyn addressed the hobbit. "Well, King's Squire, then where is that iron bar of yours? Go get it, and let's go outside to do some exercise in the fresh air."

Merry's grin nearly split his face as he went to get the tool, and a short time later the two of them had found themselves a convenient space near the inner wall of the garden to practise.

"To imagine: He had the healers take measures." Merry could not stop chuckling. "It seemed odd to me as they had already taken my measures for some clothes to be made the day before. But I did not want to seem impolite." Smoothing the front of his tunic with his left hand, he added. "I suppose what I'm wearing now is some children's garment, probably Bergil's. It feels a bit odd around the shoulders."

"Bergil?"

"Beregond's young son. He stayed in the city to run errands for the healers. Though at the moment he more or less seems to be running errands for Lord Faramir. That flowerpot the Steward sent you..."

"The Steward?" With a mixture of anger and embarrassment Éowyn noticed the shrillness of surprise in her voice.

The hobbit blinked. "Why, yes. Didn't you know? Bergil told me Lord Faramir had asked his father to get some nice plant for your room, something living and colourful, he said. And Beregond sent him home to fetch one of his mother's pots. She seems to have quite a number of different ones, but this one was the only one already blooming."

_That Steward! She should have known. _Clenching her fist around the bar, Éowyn tried to calm herself and show a sedate temper.

Frowning, Merry looked up to her. "My lady, is anything wrong?"

Having gained her equilibrium, she shook her head. "No, it's nothing. But I would not like to deprive the good woman of her flowers."

Merry let the iron bar sink. "My lady, do you really think there is a chance she might come back?" He blushed, shaking his head. "I shouldn't say such things, I know. My friends and kinsmen are out there, and I should not lose hope." He shrugged. "I just don't know, it is sometimes so difficult... Ah well, if, against all odds, she should return, why not give it back to her?" His grin slowly crept back into his face. "I suppose you care better for it than Bergil. The boy even complained that watering the pots was a nuisance. But I doubt his mother would want it back. She will rather think it a great honour to have provided you with something to please your eye, and anyway all these people would gladly do what they can to be of use to the Lord Faramir."

She did not feel in the mood to listen to any further praise of the Steward. And why was she making such a fuss over a simple flowerpot when she had taken a dagger worth a fortune from his hands? Angry with herself she went on with her exercises, and immediately the hobbit joined her, obviously relieved that the embarrassing moment did not last.

They had been training for nearly an hour, when Merry let his bar sink, clearing his throat with a sheepish look. "Excuse me, Lady Éowyn, but that bell in the citadel has just rung, and if you would not mind..."

"Do you feel exhausted, Master Holdwine? Don't fret about it, just say so. It would do nobody any good if you overtaxed yourself the very first day."

The hobbit shook his head. "No, my lady, I don't feel overtaxed by the exercise. It is just that Mistress Ioreth, upon learning how much I love mushrooms, promised me some mushroom soup for second breakfast and..."

Éowyn grinned. "No way would I keep a hobbit from a dish of mushrooms. Perhaps we should stop anyway, as I still want to pay a visit to the injured Riders."

They walked back to the Houses. Here and there convalescents were sitting on the benches, who greeted them with a mixture of respect and curiosity, but all of them were Gondoreans. When they entered the long corridor it lay silent and cool, seeming dim after the bright light of the garden, and Éowyn could not help the impression of coming back into a cage. She gritted her teeth. She did not want to spoil the happy anticipation of the Halfling who walked beside her, telling her about how the old healer had come to know about his passion for mushrooms. They had nearly reached Merry's room, when the Steward appeared around a corner of the corridor.

"Good morning, my lord." Lifting his bar, Merry beamed at him. "These bars are really splendid."

"Is that so?" A faint smile lit the Steward's face.

"It certainly is, my lord," Éowyn confirmed. "Your weapon smith has truly outdone himself and wrought a simple and yet beautiful tool that fits with our needs to the point."

"I'm pleased to hear that."

In the dim light of the corridor the signs of tiredness in the Steward's face seemed even more prominent, the dark circles around his eyes appearing nearly black.

"You should be resting, my lord."

He nodded. "I should and I will, my lady. I'm just coming from my cousin Amrothos, and it took me a little longer that I had expected."

Just when he was about to turn towards his own room, Ioreth came around the corner, carrying a stoneware pot that, given the pot-cloths she used, was quite hot. Behind her a boy appeared, a tray with a bowl and a small loaf of bread in his hands.

"Good morning, my lady, my lords. My Lord Perian, here I bring the promised soup. Bergil, bring the crockery to Lord Meriadoc's room. My Lord Faramir, you really look tired. You should have sought your bed hours ago. I told you..."

"Peace, Mistress Ioreth!" Laughing softly, Faramir raised his hands. "I was on my way to lie down. So it is you, keeping me from my rest with your scolding."

"My lord!" The old woman sputtered. "I never meant..."

"What about a bowl of mushroom soup before you have a lie-down, my lord?" Merry's face was too deadpan not to be purposeful. Éowyn hid her smile. So the hobbit too had noticed the Steward's exhaustion. Well, a bit of soup certainly would not be amiss after the little he had eaten in the morning.

"Oh, you should have a try, my lord," Ioreth eagerly supported Merry's offer. "My cousin Glandis made it, and if there is a person to make a really delicious mushroom soup it is her. It is only dried mushrooms at this time of the year, but it's the best king's mushroom you can imagine, collected in the woods of Lossarnach, my lord."

"King's mushroom?" Merry frowned. "I thought I knew quite a bit about mushrooms, but I've never heard about that one."

"It's probably just another name for a mushroom you know," the Steward said. "Just have a try and you'll recognise it at once. I thank you for your kind offer, Master Meriadoc. I gladly accept. But we had better have our meal in my room then. At least there is a table and enough chairs for the three of us."

_Three_? Éowyn frowned. "I'm sorry, my Lord Steward, but I'm not hungry at all."

"Oh no, Lady Éowyn, you certainly are." Realising the ineptitude of his remark, the hobbit blushed. "Please, my lady. How could I enjoy a dish of mushrooms without sharing it with you? Why, it was only a few days ago that we talked about mushrooms... At least give it a try."

Éowyn felt it impossible to gainsay Merry without hurting him, and they entered the Steward's room, following Ioreth, who proudly carried the pot as if it was a crown at a king's coronation. The Steward's room was like Éowyn remembered it from the council the night before. A bed took most of the space on the right-hand wall, the high headboard positioned towards the door. Obviously the Steward too was fond of a glimpse of what little open sky was to be had in this prison of white spruceness. A small wardrobe stood on the left and under a window high up in the wall similar to the one in her own room there were a table and three chairs.

Ioreth put her load down on the table, carefully shoving a map that had covered the middle of the of the surface to the far end, and putting down his tray, Bergil ran to fetch the necessary bowls and spoons.

One glimpse at the map made clear to Éowyn that it showed the area between the Great River and the Ephel Dúath. Moving to the left side of the table, she had a closer look. She spotted Osgiliath on the river, the road going straight ahead until it reached some kind of crossroads, and then there was the road that ran parallel to the mountain ridge: the Old South Road as the Steward had called it. Forgetting the others, she let her finger trail the straight line of the road that led to the Black Gate until she reached the ravine the Steward had mentioned, the only place where an attack was likely. There was a stream nearby, crossing the road a bit further north and then flowing down to the Anduin. Tiny sketches of different trees marked the predominant vegetation, but there were also signs and letters on the map she did not understand.

"It's a beautiful map, isn't it?" Merry's voice betrayed honest admiration, and to her surprise she found the hobbit at her elbow, eagerly studying the map. "I wonder where they are now. Could you not point it out to us, my lord?"

Her finger still on the map, Éowyn looked up and met the Steward's glance. The motion of his head in Ioreth`s direction was hardly visible, but enough for Éowyn to understand. "Well, Holdwine of the Mark, I suppose you had better eat first, don't you think so? It certainly would be a pity if the soup turned cold." She was not sure if there really was a faint smile on the Steward's face or if it was just her imagination, but Ioreth hurried to support her point of view, and finally the Steward himself addressed the hobbit.

"Don't wait for us, Meriadoc. This is your present, and a well deserved one I dare say, so sit down and start enjoying it and we will join you in due time."

Happy anticipation on his face, Merry obliged and opened the lid of the pot, and at once a delicious aroma filled the room. "Penny buns!" the hobbit exclaimed, reaching for the ladle to fill his bowl.

"Penny what?" Ioreth frowned, almost speechless for a moment.

"Penny buns, Mistress Ioreth. That's what we call them in the Shire. They truly are delicious and one of the few mushrooms that don't lose their taste when dried." He tried the first spoonful and rolled his eyes in delight. "Wonderful." Having gobbled down two more spoonfuls, he addressed the old healer again. "You must excuse my rude behaviour, Mistress Ioreth, but your cousin surely has outdone herself and I assure you no hobbit would be able to resist this soup, even at the danger of his life."

Ioreth literally beamed with pleasure and was about to launch into what Éowyn expected to become a lengthy description of the recipe, or the story of her cousin's life or probably both when Bergil came rushing in with the demanded items. At once Merry grabbed one of the bowls, and having filled it with a generous portion of soup, he placed it in front of Éowyn with an impish grin. "Try, my lady, you will find it worth it, and I will score some more points with your brother."

Seeing the Steward raise his eyebrows enquiringly, Éowyn explained: "My dear brother is, and has always been, a bit overprotective, to say the least. He engaged the late king's squire here to beguile me into eating."

The Steward smiled. "I'm afraid over-protectiveness is quite a common trait with elder brothers, my lady. And with Halflings," he added, his smile turning into a grin, as Merry put the other bowl in front of him, filled to the brim.

Totally unfazed the hobbit shrugged. "As long as there's life there's need of food and drink. And I assure you, mushroom soup is one of the better choices, especially this one."

The soup truly smelled enticing and it also looked appetising. Taking the spoon, Éowyn stirred the the contents of her bowl. Small pieces of mushroom swam in a thick soup that obviously had more than just a drop of cream added to it, along with finely chopped chives. She tasted the first spoonful and raised her eyebrows in surprise. It certainly _was_ delicious. She had a second try. What she had taken for chives seemed to be at least partly fresh shoots of garlic, adding a hearty quirk to the dish. And there was something else, a spice or herb she did not know, but which blended wonderfully with the other ingredients. Eager to find out, she filled her spoon a third time, when she heard the hobbit chuckled.

"I told you, you would like it, didn't I?"

She smiled. "And right you were, Merry. It is very tasty, though different from how we would make it in the Mark. There is a certain spice I do not recognise."

"Do you mean the nutmeg, my lady?" The Steward too had tried the soup and was now breaking the small loaf of bread, holing a crust out to her.

"Nutmeg?"

"It's a spice we get from the East, though we mostly import, or rather imported it through Umbar." The Steward grimaced. "There is money to be made in the trade of spices and essences, and by far not all Umbarians are corsairs. There's a good deal of more or less honest merchants who would prefer having a stable market for their products in Gondor to waging war with her."

"I don't know about _honest _when Umbarian merchants are concerned, my lord, but I bought this from a monger from Pelargir, you know the one who has his stall down in the first circle near the Old Guesthouse in the Lampwright's Street, and I dare say those people from Pelargir are worse that any cheating Umbarian could ever be." Ioreth nodded that vigorously that Éowyn thought her veil might come off any moment. "But for Dol Amroth these scoundrels would hold the monopoly on the spice market, and they make you feel the fact with their prices. Though one has to admit that their goods really are of a very fine quality."

As interesting as her information was, Éowyn just hoped the healer would shut up and leave the room, and she wondered how the Steward and obviously Merry too could endure the woman's endless prattle with such calm. Or was it just indifference? More to avoid any further remarks from Ioreth than really feeling hungry, Éowyn continued eating, pointedly concentrating on every spoonful. For a moment there was blessed silence, and looking up, she saw hobbit and Steward eating with visible delight.

"Is there anything else you might be needing?" The old healer stood watching them with a satisfied smile, her hands folded in front of her belly.

Before Éowyn could say no, Merry eagerly nodded. "Some of that tea would be nice, Mistress Ioreth. That fruity one, you know? You served it to me the other morning."

Her smile deepening, the old woman nodded. "Yes, my Lord Perian, I certainly remember. It's hibiscus, you know. And it happens to be the Lord Faramir's favourite too, isn't it my lord? I'll have some brought to you. And you, my lady? Would you also like hibiscus or would you prefer a different taste? We have rose-hip, or if you want something else there also is peppermint, or lime blossom tea, or..."

"Thank you, Mistress Healer. Hibiscus would be fine." Éowyn found it difficult to keep the edge out of her voice and was relieved when the old healer at last left the room, taking Bergil with her.

As soon as she had closed the door behind her, there was a soft chuckle from Merry. "Goodness gracious, that woman really is talkative, isn't she?"

Éowyn snorted. "I just wonder how you can stay that calm with her around."

Filling his bowl for a second time, Merry laughed. "Oh, my lady, growing up at Brandyhall certainly prepares one for such kind of things, as does having three sisters. But Mistress Ioreth certainly could talk the hind leg off a donkey."

"Don't be too strict with her, Meriadoc. She certainly _is_ talkative, but she is a very apt and dedicated healer." The Stewards voice was serious, but looking up, Éowyn saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in suppressed laughter.

"Oh, I know that and I never doubted her ability nor her good will, my lord. It's just that her tongue is as busy as a mill-wheel. But I am ready to endure more than just a prattling old woman for this soup." With a sigh of contentment the hobbit refilled his bowl, and for a while they sat eating in silence. In the end Merry finished three bowls in the time Éowyn needed to deal with her first one, and she felt rather full after that. The Steward too finished his portion, and setting the bowls aside, he pointed at the map.

"I did not know that you are interested in maps or I would have asked you to have a look before. What you see here is the Captain's map, and there are signs and information on it I'm not allowed to reveal to anyone outside the Rangers' detachment. But still there certainly is enough to be seen." Turning to the hobbit, he pointed to the slight eastwards bending of mountains and road on the map. "That's the point the troops may have reached today and not much further all living vegetation ends and the barren lands that stretch in front of the Black Gate begin."

"Barren you say?" Éowyn frowned. "That certainly might prove an additional problem with the feeding of the horses, though I can imagine as they are using the road and going at a quite slow pace they might have fodder on wains with them."

The Steward nodded. "They certainly will. Watering might be a more pressing problem though. There are some streamlets running down from the Ephel Dúath, but I would not vouch for their safeness at the moment. At least that will become more and more doubtful the closer they get to the Black Gate. Not to mention the fumes that poison the air over there."

Éowyn chewed her lower lip. "Perhaps they'll leave the horses behind at a certain point. A fidgeting, frightful horse is of no use to a warrior, and turned loose at least the horses might be able to flee if things go wrong."

"So you really think it hopeless?" The hobbit's voice was little more than a whisper.

The Steward looked up from the map. "No, Master Meriadoc, not hopeless, though I have to admit that there is not much hope. But I met your kinsman and his..." He hesitated, and finally smiled as he continued. "I'm not sure what to call Master Samwise, for calling him your kinsman's servant would certainly not do him justice. But he said he was Master Frodo's gardener, and a gardener he will remain in my memory as long as I live." He pointed to where the stream, after crossing the road, seemed to form a kind of smallish pool. "That's where I met them a fortnight ago. And that's the road they planned to take into Mordor."

Éowyn too followed the Steward's finger eagerly with her eyes as he pointed out the hidden pass over the Mountains of Shadow, when a knock at the door disturbed them and Bergil entered with the tea.

The hot fruity beverage seemed to have a soothing effect on her, and Éowyn felt her lids droop while she was listening to Merry's eager questions concerning his friends.

"My lady, you should lay down for a bit."

The Steward's soft voice startled her out of her drowsiness, and irked at being caught drowsing she snapped: "As should you." Regretting her backhanded remark at once, she gritted her teeth. Wonderful, now she really was in for some jibe. But looking up she found the Steward's face serious.

"I dare say everyone of us is tired, even our stout hobbit."

Merry stretched and stifled a yawn. "Ah well, I certainly would not say no to a nice little nap. There is little better than to rest after a fine meal."

Only now did the Steward smile, that smile Éowyn had found typical of him, with not more than a faint curling of the lip but such warmth and sincereness in those deep grey eyes that she found it hard to bear. _How could this dratted Gondorean remind her so much of the man who had been like a father to her? _Angrily she averted her eyes.

"My lady?" There was a worried undertone in the Steward's voice that caused her to immediately check herself. "You told me you wanted to visit the wards today, and I too would like to go and pay my respect to those who fought for Minas Tirith. What about all of us having a rest now and then going together to visit the injured afterwards?"

Still embarrassed by her lack of composure, she nodded. "Certainly, my Lord Steward. I dare say the Riders would feel honoured if the Steward of Gondor paid them a visit."

Rising, he took her hand. "And so would the soldiers of Gondor if the White Lady of Rohan came to see them."

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**Annotations:**

**King's mushroom**: my "invention" for the cep or penny bun (boletus edulis)

Sorry if again I made you feel hungry with all the eating in my story, but it seems I have some hobbits amongst my ancestors. ;D Anyway, should you want the recipe for any of the mentioned dishes in the story, feel free to PM me.


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks to all your feedback, especially to the anonymous "Guests". I know can be a bother to log in, but if you leave your name with the review, I will PM you, even if you are too lazy to log in for a review. ;)

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**Chapter 10**

**Hawthorn**

"_Proud and grave he stood for a moment as he spoke to the guard, and Pippin gazing at him saw how closely he resembled his brother Boromir - whom Pippin had liked from the first, admiring the great man's lordly but kind manner. Yet suddenly for Faramir his heart was strangely moved with a feeling that he had not known before. Here was one with an air of high nobility such as Aragorn at times revealed, less high perhaps, yet also less calculable and remote: one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Elder knew now why Beregond spoke his name with love. He was a man that men would follow, that he would follow, even under the shadow of the black wings._

quoted from.: _**The Siege of Gondor; The Return of the King, Book V**_ by **J.R. **

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**Minas Tirith, 22nd March, 3019, Third Age**

She woke, blinking in the bright light that filled her room, making its whiteness look even more pristine.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my lady. I did not mean to wake you." A middle-aged woman in grey garb but without the healers' veil was standing in the door, staring at her worriedly. "The Lord Faramir bid me to see if you had woken but not to disturb you. I'm sorry..."

"You needn't be." Sitting up, Éowyn swung her legs out of bed. "I was on the brink of waking anyway. Tell the Lord Steward I'm up and then come back or send someone to help me dress."

To Éowyn's dismay the woman returned with Ioreth in tow. Prattling perpetually, the old healer checked the splinting of her arm, and for a moment Éowyn felt tempted to ask Ioreth to strap the dagger to it, but she immediately pushed the thought aside. She had better ask Lhindir and save herself the comments of the old chatterbox. While the woman helped Éowyn into chemise and underdress, Ioreth perused the pile of dresses that had been brought that morning by Imrahil's footman, together with the inevitable sweetmeats that sat in a still unopened smallish basket on the bedside table.

"Here, my lady. Why don't you put this on? It's laced at the sides, and that will certainly make putting it on very convenient. And I dare say the colour will go splendidly with your hair."

The sleeveless gown Ioreth held up to her had a colour that looked as if it could not decide whether it wanted to be green, blue or grey. It seemed to be made of the same mixture of fine wool and silk the shawl consisted of while the hems were trimmed with silk, patterned in brown and grey, and there was a sash to go with the gown of the same fabric and colours. Grudgingly Éowyn had to admit that the old healer was right, and soon she was dressed and the woman started to brush out her hair, while Ioreth busied herself stowing the other dresses away. Having finished, she came to stand beside Éowyn and finally said with a sigh: "What wonderful hair you have, my lady. So silky and such a fascinating colour. It's such a pity the ends are so uneven."

"So would yours be, Mistress Healer, if you had cut your hair with a dagger to shorten it to the length of warrior braids." With grim satisfaction Éowyn saw the old chatterbox blanch and shut up, but unfortunately the silence did not last long.

"I will send someone to even it out, my lady. As it is now these fringes spoil the overall impression, and it really is not fit for a lady of your status. I should have thought of it earlier, but as you know there was so much work to be done, and I hope you'll understand that, my lady. But I'm afraid there is no time for it now, as the Lord Faramir is already waiting and if you really want to visit the wards it would be better to do so before the distribution of the evening meal. I think we'll have to braid it and pin it up in order to hide the uneven ends and..."

"No," Éowyn interrupted, losing her patience. "Braid it into a simple plait and have done with it."

"Leave it to me, my lady." For the first time since she had come back with Ioreth the woman spoke, and then set to work with nimble fingers, while Ioreth stood by, watching critically. It did not take more time than Éowyn would have needed to gather her hair into the single braid she normally wore when riding, but in the end Ioreth clapped her hands with unconcealed delight.

"Why, my lady, it certainly looks like a crown of pale gold. You did a good job, Tórdes."

The woman smiled shyly at the old healer's praise, and thanking her, Éowyn made for the door. The moment she stepped into to corridor, a man pushed himself off the opposite wall, which he had been leaning against, and bowed respectfully. Recognizing the Steward, Éowyn couldn't help the fit of awkwardness. She had not expected him to be standing outside her room when Ioreth had said he was waiting. But then, what did she care if he chose to cool his heels at her door? With a composed expression she lowered her head. "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, my lord."

"Some things are worth waiting for, Lady Éowyn."

She could hardly keep herself from snorting aloud. _What a trite remark!_ The only thing that irritated her profoundly was the lack of that bland kind of smile such a compliment was normally accompanied by. Quite the contrary the Steward's face was grave, and when he took her hand to breathe a kiss over her knuckles, this graveness seemed to make it more than just a courtly greeting. Galled by her own self-consciousness, she pulled her hand away with slightly more force than necessary and felt relieved when he switched to business and suggested starting their visit with the wards housing the Gondorean wounded, as they were the nearest.

Those wards were arranged in the way Éowyn already knew, with large rooms around a small paved yard, and upon entering this yard the Steward was hailed enthusiastically by the dark-haired men lying or sitting on pallets near the water basin in its centre, enjoying the spring sun. In the sickrooms the situation only differed by the level of noise, as the men in there were mostly suffering from more severe wounds, but their delight in seeing the Steward was no way smaller. He introduced her to the men, and not a few tried to sit up, some with rather shy smiles and others with unveiled admiration, to greet her in that strange Gondorean way, one hand on their chests. But most of them simply were surprised, though trying to politely hide their curiosity under lowered lids. She had no doubt that their gazes would turn into open stares once she had passed. _Like a mare paraded at an auction, _she though with a flash of annoyance. But would not the Eorlingas stare in just the same way had one of the captains brought a Gondorean lady with him to their quarters?So she smiled, listened to the men's conversation with the Steward, nodded encouragingly when her eyes met theirs, but all in all she stayed in the background, while the Steward talked and clasped outstretched hands. He knew quite a number of men by name, enquired for others and calmly answered their questions. He most obviously was a skilled and inspirational leader, admired by his men. Ward after ward, sickroom after sickroom they visited, and while she was finding it more and more difficult to keep the smile on her face, Éowyn had to admit that the Steward's interest, patience and friendliness seemed genuine.

It was in the last of the wards that they met the Warden, a basket with small jars and phials on one arm and deeply in talk with an elderly healer. Seeing them, he immediately interrupted his conversation, and bowing, addressed the Steward: "My Lord Faramir, I think you will be pleased to hear that Captain Maeron's fever finally broke and Healer Esgarion here is convinced that the captain will survive."

"Is he responsive?" Éowyn could hear the only poorly concealed agitation in the Steward's voice.

The healer shrugged. "He was, little more than a minute ago. Though he might have fallen asleep, as he is understandably exhausted and weak."

With a short nod, the Steward left them standing in the yard and hurried over to one of the sickrooms. It obviously was not the first time he visited that man, whoever he was. With the Warden and the senior healer at her side, Éowyn slowly followed him. Like in the other sickrooms it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the relative dimness after the bright daylight of the yard. The Steward was kneeling beside one of the pallets at the far side of the room, holding a man's hand while he was talking eagerly. Not wishing to disturb, Éowyn stopped, but looking up, the Steward motioned to her to come over. The man on the pallet seemed quite old for a soldier, his hair showing more grey than black, as did the stubble that covered the lower half of his haggard face. He looked extremely frail, despite his large frame, his right collarbone protruding like a ridge under the sickly pale skin while the other side of his wide shoulders and chest was wrapped up in bandages.

"Lady Éowyn, please come and meet Captain Maeron, Minas Tirith's chief-archer."

Smiling, the Steward looked up to her, and Éowyn was surprised at how profoundly that smile wiped out lines of worry from his face she had not even realised existed before. The old archer's eyes turned to her, his lips crinkling in a faint smile. "A Shieldmaiden of the North. Who would have believed it would ever come true? And you really killed that demon?" His hand moved weakly over the blanket towards her, and she crouched down beside the pallet and carefully took it in hers.

"I truly am a Shieldmaiden of Eorl's House, Captain Maeron, and with the help of Meriadoc of the Shire, Théoden King's squire, I smote the Dwimmerlaik."

He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, squeezing her hand before letting go of it. For a moment the Steward stayed at his side, looking down on the haggard face with concern, and only when the regular breathing signalled that the man had fallen asleep, he rose, reaching out his hand to help her rise likewise. Together they walked from pallet to pallet in the sickroom, talking to the wounded until upon finally finishing their round, they stepped out into the sun again. A group of healers was assembled in front of the Warden, who was dealing out the medicines, carefully noting in a small book what he had given to whom.

The Steward motioned with his head back to the room. "Maeron has taught me archery when I was but a little boy, making me my first practise bow. I owe him a lot, and ..."

He was interrupted by a man's voice, lowered to a raspy whisper, but even like that the resonant bass carried over the yard. "Man alive! What a nice piece of crumpet. And to think she chopped up that ghastly screecher single-handedly."

The Warden stopped mid-motion, his mouth open, an expression of utter shock, embarrassment and disbelief on his face. The healers around him pointedly avoided meeting her gaze. Éowyn suppressed a snort. _What a bunch of sissies_! Didn't they grasp that the man's remark had clearly not been meant for her ears and not for theirs either, judging from his lowered voice? And did soldiers in Gondor not delight in talking smut and bawling raunchy songs about their betters as they did in the Mark? Béma, she had heard worse any single morning on the sparring grounds of Edoras. Where did these prudes live?

The Warden swallowed hard. "My lady, I most humbly apologise for... I mean..."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "What for, Master Warden? Has anything happened?"

A deep blush slowly crept up his wrinkly throat, making it look like the neck of a griffon vulture. "But...that remark." He swallowed, struggling for composure. "That patient..."

Éowyn found it difficult not to grimace. "I'm afraid I can't follow you. What remark? I did not hear any." Turning to the Steward, she asked pointedly: "Did you hear anything, my Lord Steward?"

He met her gaze, his face deadpan save for a nearly invisible twitch of one brow. "A remark? If you did not hear any, I would not make so bold as to contradict you, my lady."

Only when they had left the yard did his controlled expression relax into a broad grin and as they were walking along the corridor towards the Rohirric wards, Éowyn wondered what people would make of them: two nobles, members of the highest ranking families of their respective countries grinning in mutual understanding like two rascals, relishing their latest prank.

Upon entering the first ward that housed Riders, Éowyn realized the converse of the situation: It was her now who was hailed, and the only difference the Steward at her side faced was that the Riders stared at him openly and with unconcealed curiosity. At least until she introduced him as Boromir's brother. Immediately a mayhem of different voices rose, comparing the Steward to his brother, who almost every man present had seen or at least heard of. Boromir, Théodred's oath-brother, Boromir who they regarded as one of Eorl's sons.

Smiling, the Steward let the noise wash over him and then addressed the men, thanking them for their valour. Side by side they went from pallet to pallet, squeezed hands, enquired after the men's wellbeing and answered questions until in the last ward they came upon Grimbeorn. Éowyn was surprised to find the energetic man lying on his pallet with a more than grumpy face. He greeted her, but did not bother to give the Steward more than a short glance. "Boromir's brother? He may be Boromir's brother, but who cares? Gondorean is Gondorean and they'll never understand our ways." With that Grimbeorn closed his eyes and turned his back at them with ostentation.

Taken aback, Éowyn stared. What had got into the captain? She was not sure whether she should be grateful that he had not spoken Westron, though he knew it better than most Riders, or if his avoidance of the Common Speech only added to the insult. But one did not need to know the words to understand the rebuff. She would not let this pass! Squaring her shoulders, she was about to react, when a soft touch at her elbow caught her attention.

"Don't, my lady." The Steward's voice was low but firm, and where she had expected anger, his eyes showed nothing but compassion. With a jerk of his head, he motioned towards the door, and silently they left the sickroom.

Once they had reached the corridor, Éowyn stopped and turned to the Steward: "My lord..."

He silently shook his head. "I am sorry, my lady, that the captain's behaviour caused you embarrassment, but please, don't feel troubled for my sake."

She clenched her fist. "Grimbeorn has no right..."

The typical faint smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Grimbeorn? He certainly lives up to his name."

Éowyn suppressed a gasp. "You speak the language of the Mark?"

"No, and I regret I don't. I learned the few words Boromir picked up on his visits to Rohan, but he was no committed teacher, and anyway I doubt he cared to learn much more than the military commands. And there are no books that could help me learning the language, at least not in the library of Minas Tirith. But I found a list with the meaning of the most customary Rohirric names."

"He rather behaved like a boar, and not like his namesake." She still found it difficult to keep her anger under control.

"Don't judge him too sternly. He no doubt fought valiantly on the Pelennor, he lost his shield-arm, and if I judge the way you addressed him correctly, you never before had any reason to complain about him or his bearing."

She was about to object, but he forestalled her, raising his hand. "My lady, we do not know what made him behave like that, nor what ill news might have reached him besides the losses he already had to cope with. And is it not possible that a fit of pain troubled him?"

Her face must have given away her dissent, because he gravely shook his head. "No, my lady, I'm not trying to excuse his behaviour, I understand that he meant to insult me, and had he behaved like that afield and under my command I would have taken him to task. But as the situation differs, so does my judgement. He is wounded. He gave his health in battle, and the only thing Gondor can offer him is a pallet in the Houses of Healing. That is all he has at the moment, and we, or better I, intruded into that last little patch of privacy."

Éowyn swallowed and turned her head away, hearing that other voice in her head. A lower-pitched voice, another accomplished warrior and leader, reminding a young hotspur of his duty. _"If you want to lead an Éored you have to understand what goes on in the hearts and heads of your men, Éomer Éomund's son. As they are sworn to you, you are responsible for them, and it is your task to know ahead what they can cope with and what not." _How full of his own importance had Éomer been then, and how patient and understanding Théodred. And he had achieved his aim and made her spitfire brother a competent leader. How she missed him, missed both of them!

"My lady, my lord."

Lhindir's voice interrupted her thoughts. She had not heard him coming along the corridor, but there he stood, carrying a tray with a supply of clean bandages. Seeing her expression, the young healer hesitated and then blurted out: "I assure you my lady, that I do not agree with Mareth, and most of us healers don't. And Anwen would certainly have liked to stay in the Rohirric ward..."

His voice petered out as he noticed the frown on Éowyn's face, but before she could demand further explanations, the Steward asked: "Mareth? What about Mareth? And how far does that concern Captain Anborn's sister?"

Lhindir swallowed. "I was not present when it started, my lord. It was yesterday, when they brought in the wounded from Anorien and..." He shot Éowyn an anxious look. "Mareth disagreed with the way the Lord Elfhelm..."

_Why could not even this capable lad speak plainly?_ Bluntly Éowyn explained: "Acwuld, the marshal's standard bearer was fatally wounded and suffering great pain, and therefore he demanded a clean and honourable death, which the Riders gave him according to the customs of the Mark."

Save for an eyebrow that shot up the Steward's face remained motionless. "I see. And Mareth disagreed."

Éowyn snorted but did not say anything. Lhindir shrugged helplessly. "She certainly did. There must have been a major clash. Captain Grimbeorn came over to the healers' room in the morning and tried to talk to her, but things only got worse. She said she would go to the Warden and demand to be appointed to a non-Rohirric ward, and what is worse, she will take Anwen with her."

The Steward nodded thoughtfully. "Mareth is responsible for Anwen, as Anborn left his sister in her care. Does the girl know?"

The young healer shook his head. "No. She had already left when Grimbeorn came, and we did not deem it sensible to wake her, only to trouble her heart."

"So you are sure she would not like to leave the ward?" Lhindir blushed under the Steward's stern gaze, but shook his head vividly.

"No, my lord. And it has nothing to do with me, as I work during the day while she does night shifts. And even if it were not like that, we would obey the rules of the Houses. But she likes to work there. She feels at home there. All are kind to her. And Grimbeorn... he treats her like a daughter."

Éowyn nodded. "He does indeed. He even stood up against me when I criticised her the first day I met her, thinking her weak."

"And Grimbeorn knows that Mareth will take Anwen with her?" The Steward's face was unreadable.

Lhindir grimaced. "Mareth told him, and some other things beside. She made clear that she deemed it neither proper nor safe for a young girl to work there alone. I was afraid for a moment that they would go for each other's throats. I wish something could be done about it."

"So do I, Lhindir." The Steward nodded reassuringly. "But even I have no right to interfere with the politics of the Warden, and you know that. But I'll see what can be done, as I would not want my captain's sister unhappy. But keep quiet about it for now, not to raise false hope."

Eagerly the young healer nodded, and bowing to them went on to the wards of the Rohirrim.

Éowyn gritted her teeth. And she had believed Mareth to be a sensible and competent woman! And Grimbeorn must have thought alike, or he would not have tried to talk to her after the incident of the previous evening.

"Lady Éowyn, would you do me the honour to accompany me to the garden?" The Steward's voice gave no hint at his thoughts, and with a silent nod Éowyn complied. They did not talk, and even when they had entered the garden, the Steward remained silent for quite a time. Nearly all the benches and seats in the alcoves were occupied by men enjoying the rays of the westering sun, but as they walked down the main path towards the herb beds, the citadel bell rang, and the men began to walk back to the Houses in small groups. Some healers came to help those who had difficulty in walking on their own, and soon they were the only ones walking the paved paths. Éowyn frowned. Could it really be that late? How long had she slept? But then, it had taken them hours to visit all the wounded. She felt exhausted and disappointed and for the first time the Steward's silence was getting on her nerves.

Finally he stopped. "Well, my lady, it seems Captain Grimbeorn had a reason for swearing."

Éowyn lifted her chin. "He did not swear, my lord. He only said that the Gondoreans would never understand the ways of the Eorlingas."

The Steward grimaced and his voice sounded bitter when he answered. "I'm afraid he might be right, for such understanding needs the willingness to comprehend the reasons for different customs and traditions without prejudices. And there is much of the old Numenorean haughtiness in Gondor, though I doubt there are many who could deem themselves superior to other peoples of Men in these lesser days. If such an attitude was ever justified anyway. And yet in overcoming old arrogance and prejudices lies our only hope. We may be different, Lady Éowyn, but we all bleed red."

He did not wait for an answer and continued walking, but after a while he stopped again and sighed. "I really wish I could do something about this. I did not tell the girl, for I did not want to cause her additional grief, but men fleeing from Cair Andros informed me of Anborn's death two days ago. She has no family any more, and I don't want her to lose what little security and happiness she seems to have found."

The realisation assaulted her without warning. He cared! Seriously cared for that girl, like she had seen him care for his archery teacher, for the men in general, even for Grimbeorn who had given him little reason to do so. Éowyn clenched her fist. She would not let her cool judgement slip away because of a Gondorean showing some emotion. And he was not even behaving very cleverly either. Anwen was suspecting her brother to be dead as Cair Andros had fallen, and did the Steward really think it needed _him_ to tell the girl of the events? She was about to tell him so, when he continued talking, looking absentmindedly at the tips of his boots.

"I cannot interfere with the rules and regulations of the Houses of Healing without severe reasons. And there is more at stake than the hurt feelings of my captain's daughter, though that is not the least of my care. There is the danger that once the rumour about Mareth's behaviour makes the rounds through the wards of the Rohirrim it might revive old rivalries and prejudices – and drive a wedge between allies. Given the Rider's reaction to my presence, Grimbeorn had not talked to them about what happened, though a lot of them must have witnessed Mareth's appearance last night and Marshal Elfhelm's reaction."

She suppressed a snort. He could not interfere! And what did he think he was doing? Aloud she said: "Grimbeorn is a reasonable man. And as for last night: Not many of the wounded in that ward understand Westron, most of them being herders from the Eastemnet. That's one of the reasons Grimbeorn stays there and has not left for one of the mansions for the lightly wounded."

The Steward snorted "Lightly wounded? He lost his lower arm." He shook his head. "I must talk to Marshal Elfhelm but I need to know more details." Abruptly raising his head, he looked at her. "Would you take it upon you to talk to Grimbeorn about the events to learn what happened?"

She faced him squarely. "I certainly would, but I don't think it necessary, as I was present."

"You were..." For the first time she saw unchecked surprise in his features.

"Marshal Elfhelm had asked me to sing the passing." Given his enquiring expression he did not understand, and so she explained. "In the Mark women stand at the beginning and at the ending of life, for it is believed that as women bring life into this Middle Earth they are also able to open the doors to the otherworld, and therefore it is women who bury the dead and perform the rituals for a safe passage of the soul."

Thoughtfully, the Steward nodded. "Now I remember. Boromir told me about it."

"Did he?" She shot him a side glance, wondering how close the siblings had been and what Boromir might have preferred to leave unsaid. Had not Théodred himself warned her not to be too open? Again the Steward seemed to be deep in thought, and he smiled sadly when he at last turned to her.

"My brother was fascinated by the earthiness and vitality of Rohirric life and culture, and he told me about everything he experienced on his journeys to Rohan."

_Really everything?_ Why for Morgoth sake did she want to believe him? Why did she care at all? Théodred had always been more than cautious not to raise any suspicions, knowing they would cause severe problems for Boromir back in Gondor, and she would not do otherwise. Looking straight into the Steward's eyes, she said: "He was welcome and highly honoured in the Mark. We regarded him as one of Eorl's sons."

The sad smile deepened. "So he told me. And more than once he wished he really was one."

She was not sure what to make of his remark, and angry at the same time about her own self-consciousness. Was she really letting some Gondorean's softly spoken words disturb her that much? So she said nothing and instead continued walking, and it was the Steward who finally spoke.

"So what did Mareth say, the evening Marshal Elfhelm's standard bearer died?"

_What a circumspect phrasing!_ She shrugged. "Fortunately she came in shortly afterwards and did not disturb the ritual. When she realised that Acwuld had been stabbed, she called us beasts and barbarians, and then the marshal told her to leave which she did."

He did not answer, only nodded, his jawline set, and for a while they continued pacing. Reviewing the events and her impressions, Éowyn finally shrugged. "I did not expect anything like that as I had experienced her to be a sensible woman and a competent healer. Though, thinking about it, three days ago a young Rider was dying from an infected belly wound, and she did nothing to speed his death and end his agony."

The Steward uttered something that resembled an angry snort. "She never would, my lady, as her oath keeps her from dealing out death. The healer's of Minas Tirith no doubt are the best we have in Gondor, but upon becoming a healer they swear never to take a life but to try everything to continue it."

She stopped in her tracks, staring at him in disbelief. "But that's ridiculous! Ridiculous and cruel, for it prolongs useless suffering. Acwuld's pelvis was smashed, and even if he had had a chance to survive, he would never again have been able to sit, let alone walk or ride. And they wanted to geld him. A warrior! How could they imagine that an Eorling, nay, any man would submit to such a life, such a living death!"

The Steward sighed. "I know, my lady, and I agree with you. But our healers see themselves in the tradition of the healers of Westernesse who are said to have been taught by the Elves of Eressea. They believe that killing, be it man or beast, diminishes the powers of healing. And there is something else. Our healers deal with drugs and techniques that easily could bring death in the hands of a person who means ill without a chance that anyone might ever find out. So the oath is a kind of assurance that the healers can be trusted."

"That makes sense of some kind, but still..." Their eyes met and the Steward nodded his understanding.

"They would have done everything in their power to lessen his pains, but they would not have killed him."

Breathing deep, she squared her shoulders. It was useless to bemoan things that could not be changed. Acwuld had been an Eorling, and the Eorlingas had taken matters in hand. But it just did not feel fair that young Anwen should suffer from this web of opposed traditions and obligations. There was more than one here who wanted further information! Coming to a halt, she asked the Steward: "You said Anborn left his sister in Mareth's care, and Anwen herself told me, she had no other relatives, but did your captain know that the girl would be working in the Houses of Healing?"

The Steward nodded. "Anborn appointed Mareth as Anwen's guardian. She is his friend Mablung's former wife and he knew her to be a responsible and kind enough woman."

"So Mareth is a widow?"

He carefully schooled his features. "No, my lady, Mablung divorced her for being barren, years ago, and as she did not want to return to her family who would certainly have seen her as a burden, she went to work and live in the Houses."

Divorced for being barren! Éowyn felt the bile raise in her throat. Some things seemingly did not differ in Gondor and the Mark, and they were not the ones she was proud of. Keeping any emotion out of her voice, she asked: "_Live_ in the Houses?"

The Steward nodded. "There are quarters for the healers to live in on the other side of the wards. None of them is married or has children, my lady, and they give their entire focus to the wellbeing of their patients. But as they have no family who would support them come old age or sickness, being a healer and living under the rules of the Houses means that they will be cared for by their fellow healers as long as they live."

Intrigued she raised an eyebrow. "The rules of the Houses? Lhindir mentioned them, too."

"Healers swear to stay celibate."

Éowyn frowned. "Celibate? For all their life?"

The Steward nodded, and Éowyn shook her head in disbelief. _To live alone_... No, they had their fellow healers' company, but to live for an entire life without any soothing of the demands of the body, without passion, without the warmth of a body beside them... And they were by far not old or frail, but healthy, energetic men and women... _Béma, what a waste of life!_ Sure, there were people in the Mark who abstained for a certain time as a pledge to the gods, and it was expected that husband and wife stayed true to each other even when separated, though as far as a husband's fidelity went, people were prepared to take things with a pinch of salt... But for an entire life? Still frowning, she asked: "All healers all over Gondor?"

The Steward shook his head. "No, not even all in Minas Tirith. Only those of the Houses, and that's one reason why they are so highly respected. That and their skills and absolute dedication to their patients. But they can leave the Houses to get married or to live somewhere else and work as a healer once their apprenticeship is finished. But leaving they would forfeit the right of living in the Houses once and for all."

"How can anybody be content with such a life?" She did not even try to mask her horror and disbelief.

The Steward shrugged. "For some of them it is the only way to lead an honourable life. And for a lot of them it also is a fulfilling one. I don't know many of the healers save Mareth, but the Warden for example, he certainly is the most skilled apothecary Gondor has seen for ages, and old as he is, he gives everything to the care of the sick, as he has done for the last fifty years. The Houses are his life, and the healers and patients his family."

Éowyn laughed mirthlessly. "They certainly are. But unfortunately he also treats them like underage children."

The faint smile was back on the Stewards face. "Old people tend to do that if they are kind. But I can imagine it does not sit well with the Rohirrim."

"No, not at all, but Grimbeorn managed to keep things under control." She only wondered how things would develop, once the rumour of Mareth's words and behaviour had spread through the ranks of the Riders. The seeming futility of being forced to wait idly already was something most of the Riders were irked about, and certainly that was amplified by the unfamiliar constriction of the city, causing them to feel frustrated and hemmed in. And had not the Gondorean captains reported brawls in the lower circles of the city? What if such animosities spilled over to the quarters of the Eorlingas or the Houses themselves? Certainly out in the camp Elfhelm had things under control, but how would small groups of Riders react, especially after a couple of pints in one of the taverns? Mareth's actions could be the seed of serious problems.

She felt the Steward's gaze on her, watching her silently while she pondered. They were allies who had to solve a problem. And had he not shown his regard and respect for her opinion when he had called her to the captains' council the other day? There was no other way, they had to be open and trust each other. Hesitantly at first, but more and more firmly, encouraged by his silent nods, she spoke her misgivings.

When she had ended, the Steward sighed. "You are right, my lady. And Anwen will find herself caught in the middle. Which brings us back to our start. The Rohirrim accept Grimbeorn as captain and you deem him a responsible man. But they certainly would take it for a major insult, should they come to know what was said by Mareth and they will start to ask questions why the two female healers are not working in their wards any more. Was that why Grimboern approached Mareth in the morning? If I understood Lhindir correctly, he more or less tried to appease her."

"And obviously she got hold of the wrong end of the stick."

Their gazes locked, and Éowyn nodded, her mind made up. "I'll go and talk with him, my lord. The last thing we need is bad blood amongst allies. But it will be your task to talk to Mareth."

A lopsided smile crept into the Steward's face. "To Mareth and to Marshal Elfhelm. And I know who I prefer to talk to."

* * *

**Annotations:**

**Hawthorn **played an important role both in traditional healing but also in folk lore. On the one hand it was seen as a key to the otherworld and its wood war used for rune inscriptions but on the other hand it was believed to be a sign of hope, even able to heal a broken heart.

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Many thanks to all who encouraged me, and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who helped me with patience and endurance to avoid the "slings and arrows" of the English language.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Wormwood**

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"_For so we reckon Men in our lore, calling them the High, or Men of the West, which were Númenoreans; and the Middle Peoples, Men of the Twilight, such as the Rohirrim and their kin that dwell still far in the North; and the Wild, the Men of Darkness._

_Yet now, if the Rohirrim are grown in some ways more like us, enhanced in arts and gentleness, we too have become more like to them, and can scarce claim any longer the title High. We are become Middle Men, of the Twilight, but with memory of other things."_ **Faramir** quoted from: _**The Window on the West; The two Towers, Book IV **_by **J.R.R. Tolkien**

* * *

**Minas Tirith, 22nd March, Third Age**

"An oath?" With an angry grunt Grimbeorn put the bowl of stew he had been stirring listlessly on the floor beside his pallet. "We did not ask her to hasten Acwuld's passing herself, did we? So what was she blathering about? That conceited ..." Checking himself, he shook his head. "I don't understand her, Éowyn. I simply don't. You have not seen her working in the sickroom. I swear, no captain afield has more courage and vigilance than that woman. She not only knows her job, she also has it in her to motivate others. All the healers follow her orders and our boys simply adore her, call her the Lead Mare." His broad shoulders hunched, the captain shot Éowyn a self-conscious glance. "I suppose it got me that seriously because I never expected her to behave like that."

Éowyn frowned. "And you tried to talk to her after Elfhelm had dressed her down?"

"I tried. Yeah. And made things worse. And bugger me if I know why." His beefy fingers raking through his hair, Grimbeorn shook his head. "See, I had told myself she was simply overworked, didn't have enough sleep. Everyone can take just so much, can't they? And the healers' job isn't an easy one. And blimey what an excellent job they do, Éowyn. If we had healers like these here in the Mark... Well, perhaps she really thought something could be done for Acwuld, at least that's what I told myself. And so I went to explain to her why he did not want to plod on. She didn't even let me finish. Spat like an angry cat. I thought she'd scratch out my eyes."

A suspicion rising inside her, Éowyn asked: "What exactly did you tell her?"

Grimboern shrugged. "That not only he was in unbearable pain, but that also there was no future for him. He was a Rider, and he would never be able to get back on a horse. And... I simply don't get how they could see gelding as a treatment."

"It would have taken away some of the pain. The Steward said they will do anything to lessen pain as far as possible but will not speed on death."

The captain snorted. "Bollocks! He'd be dying every single day he'd go on living like that. What is a man if he isn't a man? How was he to face his wife, his sons, a ball-less bundle of smashed bones? I told her she could not do that, told her that as we passed him on he would go to the Halls a fallen warrior, would keep his honour, and give a reason for pride and esteem to his family. His wife has two sons by him, they would keep his memory, and as she was still young, she would remarry one day, have more children to bring comfort and joy to her old age. Acwuld would have been a burden to the woman he had sworn to cherish and protect. I mean that's the way I see it. What use is a man to a woman if he cannot give her the offspring she craves for and protect his family? I'd prefer to die ten deaths to living a useless life. What are we, if we cannot live through our children?"

_Riders and their pride in their loins! _Carefully keeping any emotion out of her voice, she asked: "You told her that?"

Grimboern nodded. "Yeah, and I asked her if _she_ would want to share her life and bed with a gelding, bereft of any fruit of her body."

_Idiot! _Breathing deep, Éowyn mastered her composure. "Grimbeorn, Mareth is barren."

The captain's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "She's what?" he croaked.

"Her husband divorced her for being barren." With grim satisfaction Éowyn watched the words sinking in. Grimboern stared at her as if paralysed, and then closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. She let him be, and after a while he opened his eyes. "I need to talk to her. After all she did for the boys I rubbed salt in her wounds... Béma's horse, I deserve a kick in the groin."

"You did not know."

"True, I did not. But I could have been more circumspect, couldn't I? Éowyn, that woman is such a … Well, it never occurred to me she was not married with at least half a dozen strapping sons. It just does not fit in with the image." His wide shoulders sagged and he looked at her like a puppy that had been unexpectedly slapped over the muzzle. "Béma, I really made a mess of it. And what is worse, when she …" His large hand again raked his already tousled hair. "I mean she really nettled me with her reply. She said I was thinking with my balls and I… I told her she obviously needed to get laid."

Éowyn could not help rolling her eyes. _Men! _Shooting Grimboern an icy glare she said: "Perhaps she does, but it was not a very clever thing to say. And not only because it is an insult in general. The Steward told me that the healers are celibate. None of them is married, and none of them has children."

The sound Grimboern made made Éowyn suspect he was near to suffocation.

"Not married? All of them? So they have no family?" he croaked finally.

She nodded silently. He continued swearing under his breath and then asked: "But where does she live and who is going to care for her? When she's old, I mean."

"She will be cared for in the Houses, Grimboern. The Steward told me the young healers care for the old ones and they have houses on the premises to live in."

"Yeah, nice little cottages with gardens around them. There's always a group of healers sharing one, but each of them has a small room of their own. Little Wrénna told me." It was Berhtulf who piped in, having approached unnoticed.

Grimbeorn's head jerked round. "Keep your dirty hands off the girl. I'll break every single bone in your body if you dare..."

Laughing, Berhtulf raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Peace, Grimbeorn. I have no death wish, and I know if I stir as much as a finger, I'd only have the choice between you bashing in my head and Limp feeding me hemlock." He carefully lowered himself to the empty pallet at Grimbeorn's side, wincing with pain as he tried to heave his injured leg onto it. Without ceremony Éowyn grabbed his heel.

"Lean back a bit and hold unto the edges of the pallet."

The young Rider obeyed and slowly she placed his leg on the pallet. She was shoving a rolled up blanket under his knee, when she felt someone stepping up to her side, and looking up she beheld Anwen, who carried a deep plate holding half a dozen small roasted sausages. The girl bobbed her a greeting and then turned to the Rider, a wide smile on her face. "Berhtulf, as a thank-you for your kind and more than welcome attention here I bring the promised sausages..."

"You rutting son of a warg!" Bellowing furiously, Grimbeorn jumped up from his pallet, his shout waking everyone in the sickroom.

The young Rider paled visibly. "Captain, I swear... I never would as much as look at another man's girl. It's not what it seems."

Standing between the two men, Anwen gaped in horror at Grimbeorn's hostility, not understanding what was said. "What...? I did not know... It is mutton, Grimboern, mutton. You don't have a taboo on mutton, have you?"

Éowyn frowned. "A taboo on mutton?"

The grin back on his face, Berhtulf shrugged. "Oh, there were a few broken noses out there on the Pelennor when some of the city men thought to feast on the dead horses the day after the battle. Took the marshal quite some effort to calm things down again."

Uncomprehending, Anwen looked at the people around her, and seeing the girl's embarrassment, Éowyn switched to Westron. "There is nothing wrong with mutton sausages, Anwen. The captain only wants to know why you are giving them to Berhtulf."

Blushing, the girl shot Grimbeorn an insecure glance. "Glandis, mistress Ioreth cousin that is, bid me take them to Berhtulf for repairing her garden rake."

The captain looked absolutely dumbfounded. "He repaired a garden rake?"

Berhtulf nodded. "I whittled a number of new pegs. Mother Goose had been harping for at least two days on the fact that her cousin's rake needed repair and that the old healer who had been doing such jobs last year was suffering from the trembling disease and the men in town were busy what with the war... My ears were bleeding at last. I mean, it really is a shame that an old wife's tools need to be repaired by strangers, but I didn't want to ask where her children are, and why they had not taken their old mother with them. Well, and as the only thing I have at the moment is time, I ended up whittling, and Ioreth promised me some sausages. Seems her cousin has quite a reputation as a cook."

Thinking of Merry's mushroom soup, Éowyn nodded. "She certainly has, and well she deserves it. You had better eat, before the sausages turn cold."

Grinning, Berhtulf took the plate from Anwen, thanking her with that many words that Éowyn found it difficult to suppress a giggle at the sight of Grimbeorn's bulging jawline. Young Berhtulf certainly enjoyed playing with fire too much.

He took a bite, chewed, and uttered a moan of delight. "Garlic! Man, I love mutton and garlic. And they are really spicy. Delicious!" Grinning broadly, he went for the second sausage before he remembered his manners and offered one to Éowyn. Out of curiosity Éowyn took it and bit off a tiny piece. The taste of garlic was dominating, but the meat was tender and there certainly was parsley in it, cardamom and peppers. Nodding her approval, she held the rest of the tiny sausage out to Grimboern.

Disgusted, the captain grimaced. "Garlic! Stay away from me with garlic! I can't bear that stink!"

Berhtulf shrugged, unfazed. "Don't eat it then. The more there will be for me. And as for the stink: You keep eating onions, and Béma is my witness, your onion farts are ten times worse than a little innocent garlic sausage."

Laughter rose around them, and good-naturedly Grimbeorn joined in, and then turned to Anwen, who still stood beside the pallet, unsure what to do and not understanding anything as the men had fallen back to the language of the Mark. He cleared his throat awkwardly and then said: "Well, Dear, it is certainly nice of you to bring the promised treat to this ill-bred whelp, but you had better leave now, lest Mareth spots you and scolds. I'm afraid I had a little disagreement with her, and I do not want you to get in trouble once she finds you here."

Anwen smiled shyly. "I won't get into trouble. She knows I'm here."

"She knows?" Grimboern's deep frown more than proved his disbelief.

The girl simply nodded. "Yes, I told her I was going to the Rohirric wards."

"You... But she your guardian, isn't she? You have to accompany her when she shifts to another ward."

Again she nodded. "That's right. I have to stay under her supervision as she is responsible for me, but she won't shift to another ward."

"She won't? But she said..." The seasoned captain was at a loss.

Looking slightly self-conscious, the girl shrugged. "I told her I would not go with her if she changed the ward."

"You did what?"

"I told her I wanted to stay here and she would have to drag me bodily if she wanted me to follow her to a different ward. And I told her that I thought the Rohirrim were right to kill Acwuld, because he wanted it. And that I hoped if I was in such a state someone would heed my wish and not stick to cold principles."

Grimboern sighed. "Ah, Wrénna, it is not only the thing about Acwuld. I wanted to make it up with her this morning and ended up insulting her."

The girl nodded, her face in a half-smile. "And she answered blow with blow. Lhindir told me; said both of you were as stubborn and aggressive as two fighting ibexes. He was really worried. But she will stay at the ward. She does not want me to work here alone. But I had better go to the kitchen now to get you some tea for the night." Taking the empty plate from Berhtulf's hands, she again bowed to Éowyn and then left, not seeing the men who stared after her retreating figure in utter surprise.

After a while the man on the pallet next to Berhtulf's sat up, a middle-aged Rider with a bandaged head, addressing the captain in the broad lilt of the Eastemnet. "You should have let that Mareth be, Grimboern. Women are like that, and you are old enough to know their moods. It's the moon, I tell you. Take my wife. The sweetest thing you can imagine, but when she's near her flows she's a real harpy. Just give her another sennight and let her man have laid her, and I tell you, she'll be as right as rain."

"Is that so, Céorl?" Éowyn's voice was icy, and the man blanched, blinking as if realising only now that she was present. She could barely control her fury. Did these idiots really think any problem and discontent a woman had could be solved by a stiff cock?

The man swallowed. "I... I didn't... I mean, I certainly meant no offence. But it's a husband's duty to please and pleasure his wife, isn't it? She's been working for nights on end, so how can we expect her to feel good and be gentle? And it's spring, Éowyn Cynesweoster, a joyless one no doubt, but it still is spring, and the body needs the rut."

Approving murmurs rose from the men around them, silenced as Grimbeorn spoke up. "These healers do not shag, you fools. They are not married, have no sweethearts, no families. They dedicate themselves to healing, and healing only, and instead to children of their own body they give their love and care to their patients."

For a moment there was stunned silence, and then all men started to talk at once. It took a while till they had calmed down, agreeing on the assumption that the healers must have some bargain with the gods, to enhance their healing powers.

Éowyn grimaced. There certainly were few men more valiant and loyal than the Eorlingas, but as certainly there were few in the whole of Middle Earth that were more superstitious. Especially as far as any aspect of virility was involved. She felt the urge to kick them good and hard, and squaring her shoulders she turned to leave, when Berhtulf spoke up.

"They may have taken an oath, and they may be cared for when they are sick or old, but who will defend them should things come to the worst?" The young man struggled to stand and then addressed the men around him. "If they forego the joy of having offspring and care for us instead, should we not see ourselves as their true sons?"

Éowyn stood and stared, not heeding the hubbub that rose again around them. Was that really the Berhtulf she knew? The jester, the charmer, the happy-go-lucky fellow who was convinced that neither foe nor woman could resist him? Berhtulf lifted a hand to regain his comrades' attention. "We should all dedicate ourselves to an individual healer we promise to especially care for." He grinned, noticing the dirty look Grimbeorn gave him. "I'll adopt Mother Goose. I really like her, as she reminds me of my grandmother's sister. And I like to have someone who talks more than I do myself."

Like on cue, Ioreth's voice could be heard from the yard, rising a little shrill over the men's laughter. "No, young man. You stop right here. And don't you try to pretend you don't understand me, I remember your face quite well. I told you the day before yesterday: No spirits in the Houses of Healing. And here you turn up with an entire keg! What? It is ale, not spirits? Oh, you impertinent...! Be it as it may. No! Take it back to where you got it from."

The men looked at each other, grinning. Only Berhtulf rolled his eyes. "Thus passes away our chance of a cup! Aelfhun is such a twat. And Deornoth is not better. Got caught the last time, and here they go again."

Just then Merry's voice piped up. "I beg your pardon, Mistress Ioreth, but it was me who asked them to carry the keg for me, as it would have been too heavy for me alone, as you certainly can well understand."

Éowyn saw Grimbeorn's eyebrows rise, and intrigued she went to the door, followed by any Rider in the sickroom who could walk.

Just opposite, on the other side of the small ornamental pool, Ioreth stood, arms akimbo, glaring at two young Riders, one of who was carrying a small wooden keg under his arm. At their side Merry had stepped up, smiling his most innocent smile as he tried to convince the old healer.

"You?"

"Yes, me. I...I got it as a present, you see. And at least in my country it is thought very impolite to turn down such an offer. And just as I was thinking about how to transport it all the way up from the fourth circle, fortunately these two well-behaved young men turned up and asked me if they could be of service. Well, and here we are."

Though visibly bewildered, Ioreth held her ground. "My Lord Perian, I certainly have no right to tell you what presents to accept, but these _well-behaved young men _tried to smuggle in beer just the other day..."

"To _smuggle in_?"

Éowyn found it hard to suppress a snort at Merry's hammy performance. The healer frowned, but obviously did not think it her place to call the "Prince of the Halflings" a play-act.

"Patients of the Houses are not allowed to drink any spirits. It could be dangerous, because some of the drugs and potions do not agree with alcohol. I told them. But if there are things they do not want to listen to, these Rohirrim just pretend not to understand. They..."

"But look, Mistress Ioreth," Merry interrupted her, putting on his most charming smile, "I do not have to take any potions anymore, so there would be no danger. And you would not deprive a convalescent soldier of a mug of well-earned ale, would you?"

Ioreth wavered, but before she could say anything, the door opened again and Mareth entered the yard, tall and erect, her face in an unreadable expression. Not knowing how to react, Ioreth stared, keg, Rohirrim and Perian obviously forgotten. Mareth just gave her a short nod. "Good to find you here, Ioreth. I need someone skilled to help me change Herelaf's bandages."

As soon as Ioreth turned her back to them, following Mareth across the yard, the young Rider with the keg swiftly retreated into the nearest sickroom. Éowyn was still grinning at their prank, when Mareth turned and spoke again. "Grimbeorn, I need you to translate." Without another word, the healer walked over to the opposite sickroom, Ioreth in tow. Grimbeorn just shrugged and followed them, and only when he had disappeared, did Berhtulf dare to chuckle.

"Worse than our old lead-mare, but I'm bloody happy to have her back."

**ooo**

"Not in my wildest dreams had I expected Anwen to stand up against Mareth." Éowyn shook her head. "She seems so frail, so docile. But after what she had told me about her work in the Houses I should have know better. She not only looks like a reed, but she also has the resilience of the reed."

The Steward smiled. "That certainly is one of the jokes of history that we are spared further complications by an obstinate Gondorean slip of a girl and a conciliatory Rohirric warrior. Not really the thing that could have been expected."

Éowyn shrugged. "Grimboern is an accomplished warrior and a stern captain, but he is known in the Eastfold for his soft spot for wilful women. His wife was said to be as much captain as he, and when his daughter decided to marry my brother's friend and second in command, Grimbeorn grumbled and truly behaved like a wounded bear, but he did not gainsay her."

"That friend of your brother's still lives?" The Steward pulled a wry face but his eyes were laughing. Éowyn could not help a grin.

"He does. Éomer told me when their first child was born, Grimbeorn simply melted and turned into a doting grandfather over night, and with them having three offspring by now and his daughter being content, Grimbeorn has even found it in himself to forgive Éothain for _stealing_ his one and only daughter."

Unprepared the thought hit her like the blow of a pole-axe: What would become of them? Of them and the others? The women, children, old people left behind in the Mark? And what about those who had been evacuated from Mundburg, hiding now in the mountains of Gondor?

"My lady?"

Looking up, she met the Steward's eyes, grave again and full of care. She shook her head and turned away. "I'm sorry, but I just thought of them, of all those people, our people, the people of Gondor and the Mark. They are doomed, should the warriors fail, and yet there is no real chance..."

"There is but a faint one, lady. But it is every lord's and warrior's duty to do what can be done to protect those who are dependent on them. That's what they are fighting for, why they march on the Black Gate, making themselves a bait..." He stopped and their gazes met again. "My uncle informed me as far as he thought wise before they left, and I did not ask any questions. We truly live in dire times, as secrecy even between kin and friends is necessary."

Éowyn nodded. "I was informed by my brother." Her gaze wandered to the dark square of the window. Out there to the east, marching north to face the Enemy in a hopeless attempt, were those she cared for, - her brother, men she had known from childhood, _him_!She clenched her fist. "I wish I could be with them."

"So do I, my lady. But we both know we would not be up to it."

No, they certainly would not. And so they were waiting for the inevitable to happen. Waiting like that little red-golden haired girl in the Wold who held her brother's heart, like Eorthwela, Éothain's wife, most beautiful woman of the Eastemnet in the eyes of the herders, like Frithuswith, old but unfailing keeper of Meduseld and so many others she did not know and who yet suffered the same uncertainty. All of them were facing the same fate, the same torture... And somewhere far in some hidden valley in the north there was Elrond's daughter...

The Steward's movement as he shoved a filled goblet across the table towards her shook her out of her thoughts. _So the Eorlingas were not the only ones to disobey the rules of the Houses! _She nodded her thanks and squared her shoulders. "So we have to wait and use the time that is left to prepare for the moment the unthinkable might happen and steel ourselves to face whatever might come our way."

Tilting his head in agreement, the Steward raised his cup. "But we are not forced to stay idle, my lady. Quite on the contrary it is our duty to do what we are able to do to keep up the spirit of the people who share our fate and wait at our side. We are responsible for them."

They drank in silence. It was white wine, surprisingly light and refreshing, very different from the rich, sweet red one Théoden King had preferred, and Éowyn wondered if it had been watered. When had she drunk her last cup of wine? She remembered drinking wine at her betrothal to Erwig, remembered Théodred's laughing eyes as he had filled their cups repeatedly, his banter getting more suggestive with every cup they had emptied, and finally she had turned hers upside down to prevent him from filling it again, much to Erwig's amusement. He had been a good man... Erwig of Westfold. She took another sip. They had served mead at his funeral, only a sennight later. She could not remember drinking any kind of spirits after coming back from the Westfold, always wanting to be alert under the cunning gaze of the Worm. But she had served wine to the Riders and to_ him _when the éohere had left for Helm's Deep, led by Théoden King after Gríma's exposure. Rich, red wine, dark as clotted blood. Lost in thought, she swirled the contents of her cup, thankful for its golden clearness. It was the Steward who finally spoke again, his tone casual in a noticeable attempt to ease the atmosphere.

"So we were certainly lucky that Grimbeorn was steeled by life for the pertinacity of women. Not many men, be they Gondorean or Rohirrim, would have borne Mareth's wrath with as much patience and understanding."

Éowyn grimaced. "There are enough problems without that. Berhtulf reported there had been a severe disagreement because some of the Gondoreans had thought horseflesh a welcome addition to the staple diet."

"Severe disagreement?"

"Bloodied noses," Éowyn elucidated.

The Steward raised an eyebrow, the typical faint smile playing around his lips. "The Rohirrim certainly have a convincing way to make their point of view clear. I'm sure nobody will think of horses as meat as long as they are present. Anyway I doubt that the Gondoreans had meant any offence. They just did not know better. Horses never played a role in the city as there are not more than the dozen the Steward keeps for the message riders. Those people probably never had come closer to a horse than they had come to a deer or hart."

Frowning, Éowyn put down her cup. "They should at least have known about the special bond the Rohirrim have with their horses, as even the name you give us in your tongue points it out."

The Steward shook his head. "Only few commoners in Gondor speak Sindarin, my lady. They use the name and yet may not know what it means."

She knew he was right, and yet it felt like a debasement of her people. Lifting her chin, she proudly looked him straight in the eye. "The Mark paid with blood and bone for fulfilling the oath we had taken, my lord. And Minas Tirith would have come to ruin without the Riders and their horses. So certainly we can expect the people of Gondor to respect our valour and the traditions and beliefs they are based on."

The Steward nodded. "You certainly can. And I doubt that there is a single soul in the city that is not thankful for the deeds of Rohan's Riders. But beliefs and tradition differ, Lady Éowyn, and for simple people it sometimes is difficult to understand these differences and take them for what they are: Just different ways of different people from different places to try to cope with just the same challenges of life." His voice was low, and yet it held an authority that could not be unnoticed.

"In actual fact we are all the same, Éowyn, no matter where we have been born: Men. Mortals with all our weaknesses and strengths."

Éowyn lowered her eyes. She had heard the like from Théodred, listening to his heated discussions with his father. Théodred, who despite the constant skirmishes with the Dunlendings had tried to come to an agreement with them in an attempt to give the Westfold peace. And she remembered well his low and serious voice, scolding them when one day soon after they had been taken into fostering by Théoden King he had found Éomer and her relishing in a vivid praise of Helm Hammerhand, picturing his ways of killing the Hillmen in the most gruesome ways they could imagine. But had not even Théodred sometimes shook his head at Boromir's praise of Gondor, her culture, her courage and age-old history? Had not even he frowned when his friend mockingly had called the Eorlingas _younger brothers _or even _toddlers_? She wasn't sure though how far this display of haughtiness had been really condescension or just part of the constant banter Boromir and Théodred had relished in. Yet Théodred had grudgingly admitted that Gondorean steel was by far superior to anything they produced in the Mark. But Boromir had fast learned that for all their splendour and true advantage when fighting on foot the Gondorean longswords were simply useless when fighting on horseback.

Looking up again, she found the Steward's eyes on her with grave concern, and with the blush of embarrassment, anger rose inside her, pushing her to object. "We may all be Men, my lord, but Gondor never failed to point out our differences and her superiority."

He merely shrugged. "We only differ in the way we were brought up, in what we were taught, in our traditions and beliefs. And as necessary and valuable these traditions and beliefs are to give us an identity, if we are not able to call them into question when necessary they become mere prejudices."

She clenched her hand, his steady calmness itching her like a wasp's sting. Whose prejudices was he referring to? Whose traditions and beliefs was he calling into question? Had not even Boromir joked about the traditions of the Mark? Was it not only haughtiness in disguise, the patronising attitude of one who thought himself superior beyond doubt? Superior he might be, but he would not find her giving in that fast. "They may be prejudices, my lord. Yet even prejudices might be helpful in exceptional situations, situations that leave us uneasy and disorientated, like a stick is helpful and an aid to a weak or injured person."

He nodded gravely. "That certainly is correct, my lady. But as we should strive to overcome weakness and try to walk freely, we should check our prejudices, check if we really need them. And we should be careful not to turn them into a weapon, for they are a knife that is all blade: It cuts the hand that wields it."

Éowyn laughed mirthlessly. "Wise words, my lord, but it was the royal family of Gondor who started the Kin-strife, deeming Eldacar not worthy for being of mixed blood. It was the pride in Númenórean blood and heritage that caused death and war within Gondor for years, not the fault of those you call Middle Men."

"Alas, you are right, Éowyn, and Gondor paid heavily for it. But yet it does not render my opinion wrong: Pride without duty and care is shallow."

She did not know what to answer and let her gaze wander to the dark square of the window. She wished she could push his words aside, tell him he did not know about duty, did not know the cage she had felt around herself for years, but she knew better. If anyone knew about duty, it was the man in front of her. A man who had been sent out to a futile fight at the proud whim of his father, and who had taken it upon himself to go, out of _duty_. How she wished that but for once she could wipe out this word, smash it, stomp it into non-existence. To be free, just for once, just for a moment to soar unbound, unhampered over all the petty affairs of life...

"Believe me, I know what you feel."

Again the Steward's low voice woke her from her musings. She shook herself. _Futile musings_. She had better concentrate on the tasks at hand to be prepared for what was to come. How had she become that weak as to whine for things that could not be had? Everything had started with them discussing the behaviour of Mareth and Anwen. Prejudices? Yes, she admitted to herself, she had been prejudiced against both of them, the strong, confident healer and the meek little girl, and in both cases her prejudices had not been met. She shrugged, her gaze still on the window. "I have been blind, my lord, and perhaps I even wanted to be blind, wanted to see what fitted with my expectations. Anwen's behaviour really was an eye-opener, and I am still surprised. On the other hand I am not sure if I will ever be able to accept Mareth's attitude, but I can see and understand now what makes her behave the way she does."

All of a sudden she felt her fingers that were holding the empty cup engulfed by a large, warm hand.

"We must open our eyes, Éowyn, our minds and hearts to see things and people as they are. There are things we can only behold if we are prepared to do so. But I admit that doing so can be dangerous as it might lead us to realize uncomfortable truths, or things that disturb our balance of mind strongly."

Their gazes locked. _Grave, grey eyes. Théodred's eyes._ And for the first time that did not disturb her.

* * *

**Annotations:**

**Wormwood: **In ancient herbalism this very bitter plant was believed to be able to counteract the effects of poisoning

**trembling disease:** my transliteration for the Parkinsonian syndrome

**Cynesweoster:**(Old English/Rohirric) - King's sister

**wrénna:** (Old English/Rohirric) – wren

**Éohere: **(Old English/Rohirric) – cavalry

**Eldacar:** Son of King Valacar of Gondor and Vidumavi, princess of the Northmen of Rhovannion. In TA 1432 he succeeded his father on the throne of Gondor, causing members of the royal family to rebel against him because of his non-Númenórean mother. The civil war that followed lasted several years and left Gondor seriously weakened.

The **sausages** mentioned are some kind of **merguez**, and if you want to make your own, I will provide you with the recipe. ;)

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Thanks to everyone who encouraged me, and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who helped me with the language.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 **

**The Roses of Imloth Melui**

* * *

"_It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still."_

**Faramir's** talk to Éowyn, quoted from _**The Steward and the King; The Return of the King; Book V **_by **J.R.R. Tolkien**_**.**_

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**Minas Tirith, 23rd March, Third Age**

She felt the sun on her face and a soft draught of fresh air. Her eyes still closed, Éowyn stretched. How good it was just to rest in the sun, to feel warm... _The sun! _Her eyes flew open. The small, white room was filled with bright sunlight and through the open window voices could be heard, though she could not make out what was being said. She sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. Bright day already! How could she have slept that late? She had woken way before dawn, due to a full bladder, and having returned to her bed after using the chamberpot she had thought to just doze a little more before getting dressed and going out into the garden. How could she have fallen asleep again? And have slept that long! Certainly the Steward would be waiting... Realising the direction of her thoughts, she checked herself. What had got into her? She was not his vassal and had no obligation towards him!

Brisker than necessary she threw back the sheets and made for the washstand. She was busy shrugging off the nightgown when there was a soft knock at the door and a second later Ioreth's voice piped up. "Lady Éowyn? Have you woken?"

Éowyn grimaced, suppressing a sarcastic answer. Peeping around the corner of the screen, the old healer offered her a good morning in a gush of superfluous words and asked her if she needed any help.

"I will need some assistance with the lacing, but otherwise I should be able to cope myself. But send for some breakfast, please."

"Breakfast?" Ioreth sputtered. "But..."

Éowyn's mood darkened. "I know it is too late for breakfast, but there should be some crust of bread and a cup of tea to break my fast, Mistress Healer. I'm asking for no banquet."

The old healer's mouth opened and shut again twice, before she was able to answer. "Oh, my lady, I'm sorry for... But you misunderstood me completely! I would gladly bring you anything you like if it could be found in the city, and certainly at any time you want. It is just that the Lord Faramir bid me to inform you that he's waiting to share his breakfast with you, should you wake, and..."

_He was waiting! Again! _Furious at not being able to conceal the blush that crept into her cheeks, Éowyn turned her back on the healer. "I do not remember having any appointment with the Steward. Please tell him that he needn't wait for me."

She expected Ioreth to leave, but nothing happened. Containing her wrath with difficulty, Éowyn turned round slowly. The woman had not moved, but literally stood her ground, and though her short, plump fingers were playing nervously with the hem of her apron, she met Éowyn's gaze. Brown eyes, frightened eyes, reminding Éowyn of a fat, oversized squirrel. "Well?" Her face a mask of contempt, Éowyn looked down on the woman before her.

Ioreth gulped, the fidgeting of her hands turning into clenching. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I know it is not my place and I should not... But...I...I just beg you. The Lord Faramir... You see, he has suffered so much lately. And, beg your pardon, he's such a good man, and... He truly deserves... I mean, he never..." Heaving a deep breath, Ioreth pulled herself together and started anew. "I'm a healer, my lady, as you certainly know. And amongst others, though he certainly holds a special place in my mind and heart, the Lord Faramir is in my care. He was on death's doorstep, my lady, and I cried bitter tears, thinking him doomed to die. He survived, thanks to King Elessar's healing powers, as did you, but like you he is still far from being healed. It is not the wound, my lady, but that awful pest, the Black Breath, which sucks out every last grain of joy and has caused many a good man to despair and die. I deeply care for him, my lady, for he deserves to be cared for and I would do anything to make him feel better, anything to lighten his mood, and..."

Her voice petered out, and she looked pleadingly at Éowyn. "Please, my lady, at least go and see him, even if you do not want to share breakfast with him. I have been watching him these past days and he looks so drawn and exhausted that I'm frightened. But in your company... Nay, already when he's waiting for you to meet him, it feels as if he is coming close again to how he used to be, as if he is stepping back into life. Please, go and meet him, my lady. He cares for you."

Éowyn's hand cut the air in an angry move. "I do not need any man's pity!"

"But he needs yours!" The plump, old woman nearly yelled at Éowyn, her small hands clenched into fists. "Please, my lady, swallow that pride of yours and keep him company. How many days do you think we still have, before we all perish? We all are awaiting the same doom, so how do you have the right to spurn a good man's sympathy just for selfish pride?"

Éowyn felt like she had been slapped. "Selfish pride?" she growled.

"Yes, selfish." Though her face openly displayed fear, the old healer nodded so vigorously that her veil became askew. "For your pride makes you blind to his sufferings, but believe me, he suffers no less than you, and..." As if she had spent all her energy, Ioreth suddenly clasped her hands in front of her face, breaking into violent sobs.

Éowyn stared, stunned by the healer's outburst, not sure whether she was more surprised by her actions or by her words. How strange; the woman in front of her visibly was afraid and yet tried to achieve determinedly what she thought to be best for those in her care. True, Lord Faramir was the Steward, a man of the highest ranking, but had Ioreth not likewise defended that overgrown puppy Berhtulf against the Warden? It looked as if the Riders did not call her Mother Goose just for her never ending prattle but for the uncompromising way she had of defending whoever she had taken under her wing. Éowyn could not help a kind of grudging admiration for the old healer.

All of a sudden Ioreth stopped crying and wiped her eyes and cheeks with her apron. "I'm sorry, my lady. I should not have spoken like that, but..."

"Enough!" Pulling the dagger from under her pillow, Éowyn threw it on the bed. "I want you to fasten this to the splinting of my arm. Go and fetch what material you need. And then help me with the lacing of my dress. You would not have him wait longer than necessary, would you?" She moved behind the screen again, let her nightgown drop and took up the wash-cloth.

"So you will go and see him? The Lord Faramir I mean, my lady?" Ioreth's voice sounded breathless, and Éowyn found it difficult not to roll her eyes. How could a single person be so dedicated and so annoying at the same time?

**ooo**

Quite a number of patients were already in the garden, some walking the straight paths, some sitting on the benches, enjoying the morning sun. Different from the day before, Éowyn noticed a number of blond heads among them, injured Riders, taking their first, still slightly insecure steps with the help of their comrades. All the alcoves in the inner wall were taken, and in not a few the convalescent men were playing chess with the pieces provided in the drawers below the small stone tables. It was a scene of general peace, but for the bandages and crutches that reminded any onlooker of the situation they were in.

Éowyn did not see the Steward immediately, but soon she spotted him in the alcove near the great gnarled pine, playing chess with a man she believed to be Beregond. Slowly she approached, taking the path along the inner wall, and just when she rounded the large pine, the Steward seemed to make the move that ended the match. His countenance showed a strange mixture of concentration and relaxation, but the shadows under his eyes were still prominent enough not to be overlooked. For a moment she hesitated. Could it really be that her company had a strengthening influence on him? And if the loss of appetite, the fatigue and brooding mood were symptoms of the Black Breath, as Ioreth had said, what did her own face look like? Angry with her own reluctance, she shook off her misgivings. She was of Eorl's House and she had come out to act, not to stand behind a tree and stare like some timid girl. A few purposeful steps brought her close to the alcove.

"Good morning, my lord Steward."

Her voice caused him to look up, and a huge smile flitted over his face before he regained control, schooling his features to the typical seriousness she knew. He rose, and greeting her, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I hope you slept well, my lady."

Éowyn found it hard not to grimace. "I certainly did. Sound and long. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

He smiled again. "I could repeat the words I said yesterday, but they did not seem to your liking. Though that does not make them less true."

Éowyn felt the itch to retort with some incisive remark, but was forestalled by Beregond, who asked her politely to move just one step so he could stow away the chess pieces in the drawer and lay the table. Intrigued she watched the tall man gathering the pieces with large, callused hands that clearly showed the warrior as much as his general bearing did. And yet he did not seem to feel humbled by the servant's duties he was performing, but even gave the arrangement of the different items on the small table more care than necessary. How far would these Gondoreans go for the love and esteem of their Steward?

She took her seat, and sitting himself opposite, the Steward offered her some cinnamon buns, asking at the same time if she would like to have something more savoury instead, like thinly sliced smoked ham or a piece of well-matured red cheese. She decided to start her breakfast with some cheese, and while the Steward buttered one of the small rolls for her, Beregond went to fetch some hot tea. She nibbled the roll and popped one of the tiny cheese cubes the Steward had cut for her into her mouth. Savoury indeed! Reaching for a second cube, she looked up, meeting the gaze of an obviously well-satisfied Steward.

"It seems, my lady, that a good night's sleep has whetted your appetite."

She frowned. "And what about yours? You should be even hungrier than me, having waited all morning for me to turn up."

He shrugged. "I'm afraid my appetite has suffered a bit lately. I definitely do not feel hungry, but now I have your company for breakfast, I think I should set a good example and eat."

"I insist upon it." Seeing one of his eyebrows twitch in that typical way, Éowyn put down the roll she had been about to take a bite off, and raised her chin in challenge. "I mean it, my lord. You said yourself that the lack of appetite might be a symptom of the Black Breath. If it is, you should deem it your duty as a Captain of the Free Peoples to eat, for it is one more way to defeat the Dark Lord."

His eyes sparkling with laughter, the Steward bowed his head. "As my lady commands."

Remembering the small parcel she had shoved into the triangular bandage that supported her broken arm, she pulled it out and offered it to the Steward to open. "You said the other day that you liked the sweat-meats made by Prince Imrahil's cook, so have a look at what he has to offer today, and help yourself, if it kindles your appetite. At least it is supposed to kindle mine."

Smiling, the Steward opened the small chip box, but he turned serious as soon as he had had a look at its contents.

"Is it something you don't like?" Éowyn enquired.

The Steward shook his head. "No, my lady. Quite the contrary. It is a kind of almond paste, a speciality of Dol Amroth I relished every time I went to visit my aunt and uncle as a child. But I am not sure if you really would like to offer it to me."

Éowyn frowned. "Why should I not? If you like it, what can keep me from offering it and you from taking it?"

Now not only his eyebrow but also a corner of his mouth twitched. "The meaning of the offering, my lady."

"And what might that be?"

"If a woman gives these almond cakes to a man it is meant to be a sign of... encouragement."

"Encouragement?" Éowyn was sure there was something she did not get, but stubbornly she lifted her head. "And what is wrong with that, especially in the dire times we have to face?"

The Steward's lips curved almost imperceptibly. "I fully agree with you, only that it is rather meant as an encouragement of courtship."

For a split second her mood hovered between anger and laughter, but then the pragmatism of the Mark got the better of it. "I certainly do not desire to be courted, but as I am able to say so, plain and loud, I see no reason why you should not eat the paste if you like it. It may be a tradition of Dol Amroth, but it's not a sacred ritual, and I doubt that anybody here in the garden will take any notice of it. Just eat and enjoy it."

The Steward's smile deepened, as he took something like a smallish cake out of the box. "Have one yourself, my lady. You'll find they are delicious."

Picking one of the pieces, she raised her eyebrows. "And what does it mean if a man offers almond paste to a woman?"

He laughed openly. "Nothing, I assure you. Almond paste is seen as a strengthening food in general and is often given to ailing children or convalescent people in general. But one certainly does not need to be poorly to enjoy the taste." He bit off half the cake, nodding encouragingly to her to try herself. Gingerly she looked at the small cake in her hand. It consisted of two layers of some kind of thin wafer, filled with a whitish substance that was soft but not creamy. Intrigued she took a bite. It was sweet and beside the finely ground almonds she thought she tasted some rosewater. It tasted strange after the cheese, but not bad at all, and she finished it with a few more bites and then smacked her lips.

"Tasty and nourishing. I see why it is given to people who need to regain strength but may have problems to eat much."

The Steward nodded. "It also keeps fresh for quite a long time when stowed in closed jars, an aspect that has always played an important role for sea-faring people like the ones of Dol Amroth."

Sea-faring! Éowyn wondered what the sea, what the ships looked like, how it felt to be on board of one of the great war-ships of the Falas she had heard Théodred talk of, and she said so, and for the next hour they sat in the alcove, the Steward talking about the sea, about it's vastness and all the strange creatures that could be found in its cold depths. Éowyn listened with bated breath, only now and then asking him to specify some of the things he had mentioned.

The Steward's face became animated, all tiredness having vanished, and despite her true interest in what he had to tell she felt a rush of pride and joy at being able to get him out of his melancholy. And she managed to make him eat. For in between his stories and explanations she would reach for a morsel of cheese, a slice of ham, and with a twitch of his eyebrow obligingly he did the same, now and then stopping his talk to cut up and butter more bread.

Several times she was so caught by his tale that she forgot to put the food in her mouth and rather kept it in her hand, listening. Then he would wink at her after a while and eat something himself, reminding her of the forgotten morsel. It was like some grotesque kind of dance, some childish play, and she enjoyed it profoundly. The Steward's voice was a little higher-pitched than Théodred's or Éomer's, but not unpleasant, and she wondered if he could sing. From the sea itself their talk turned to sailing it, and he told her about the important harbours of Pelargir and Dol Amroth, about all kinds of different ships, from small fishing-boats to merchant vessels and war-ships, but also about their everlasting strife with the corsairs of Umbar.

"Prince Imrahil and Lord Thólinnas of Pelargir have taken great pains in the construction and maintenance of a Gondorean fleet, seeing the danger Gondor and especially their coastal fiefs were exposed to should Umbar side with the Dark Lord, but unfortunately my father went against their council." The Steward sighed. "He even insisted on Amrothos being present in Minas Tirith when the outbreak of war was foreseeable, rather than let him operate one of the war-ships. Lord Thólinnas and his son Radhruin engaged in defending Gondor's coast, but as I heard Pelargir has been seriously destroyed I wonder as to what has become of Tol Falas and Dol Amroth."

He shrugged and had another sip of tea. "I suppose that is what pains Amrothos most. He certainly is not an easy patient for the healers to manage." He gave her a wistful smile. "I would have asked you to come with me and visit him, but he refuses to see anybody save the healers and me. And me he accepts only because he is not strong enough yet to throw me out bodily."

Having finished their breakfast to the last crumb, they rose and went for their daily climb to the wall. One week after the battle the ditches dug by Sauron's armies were all filled in, but still large numbers of men were busy everywhere on the Pelennor. Éowyn could not make out at once what exactly they were doing but then she realised that most of them were transporting earth and stones towards the line of burial mounds stretching across the Pelennor. How many Riders lay in those mounds? And how many Gondoreans, coming from all corners of the realm, some of them no doubt as far away as the Mark? Her thoughts went back to the battle, the charging of the Eorlingas, the frenzy of battle, Théoden King's moment of glory, and then that dreadful wraith, faceless, radiating horror like a cold mist, the Witchking riding that hideous winged creature, stinking of rotten meat...

"My Lady Éowyn?"

The serious tenderness of the Steward's voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up into his face. Grey eyes, full of understanding. Had not he himself felt the terror of that foe, resisting it to the last to save as many of his men as possible? He knew what it was like to feel that icy voice cutting into the numbed brain like a naked sword. He knew...

Again she looked out over the marred plain that once had been fruitful and lush and all of a sudden the wish to see her uncle a last time welled up in her heart.

**ooo**

Their steps echoed through the huge hall of the Citadel, un-muffled by anything. No carpet, no hangings, no glimpse of wood softened the majestic impact of the stone, white and black marble, impressing the eye but leaving the heart cold. On pedestals stood the likenesses of former kings of Gondor, stern-faced, their stony eyes gazing into the distance, high above all other creatures crawling on the earth they seemed aloof, not caring for anything but their posthumous glory.

Éowyn found it difficult not to let her repugnance show on her face. Gondor – Stoningland. Never had this name seemed more fitting to her. And there, at the far end of the vast hall stood a guard of honour at both sides of Théoden King's bier, placed in front of a dais that led up in many steps to the throne. That too was made of stone, of the same white marble, polished to perfection, like the canopy above it. White gems formed the flowers of the tree, carved in bold relief into the stone of the wall behind the throne, glittering like minute stars, beautiful and sublime, a cold mockery of the very symbols of life. Éowyn swallowed. Had she really ever thought to be chosen by the man who was meant to sit there? She felt her skin crawl at the thought of herself, presiding in this lifeless hall. And anyway, where would Gondor's queen sit? Would she not be placed at the king's side? She gazed at the throne with an appraising eye. It certainly was splendid and spacious but not wide enough to hold two persons in a dignified way. Then her gaze fell on the black seat at the bottom of the stairs. Could it be that the queen was seated there? She frowned. True, the queen's chair of honour set beside the throne of the Mark bore a lower back-rest and it was slightly smaller than the throne itself, but otherwise it was an exact likeness up to the last carving.

"My lady?" Faramir's enquiring voice stirred her out of her pondering. Feeling caught at improper thoughts, she could not help a blush. How could that dratted Steward make her feel that uncomfortable with a single remark – nay, with his mere presence? Mustering her countenance, she shrugged. "I was just wondering who would sit in that seat at the bottom of the stairs to the throne."

"That's the Steward's place, my lady. Throughout all the years the Ruling Stewards of Gondor have presided from there as there has been no king of Gondor for many centuries and the throne itself has not been used."

Éowyn nearly choked, realising what he had not said: There was no place for a queen at the side of Gondor's king in affairs of ruling the country. Slowly she released her breath, careful to hide her agitation. In the Mark, the queen was Underking, first counsellor to her spouse and ruling in his absence. Her mind whirled. Could things be so different in Gondor? Even though in the Mark the house was regarded a woman's foremost domain, that included the care for general affairs which were not explicitly concerned with warfare, be it a farm or the realm, depending on the husband's rank. And certainly not to heed a wife's counsel was thought unwise by most men. What was a woman's position like in Gondor, if even the queen had no place at her husband's side? Did the Elven woman, did Elrond's daughter far in the North know about that? Éowyn looked up at the throne and the crown high above it. Marble and gold – lifeless and cold. More a tomb than a place for the living.

She slowly approached the throne and the bier that was placed at its foot. A bed of state, draped in white and green, the colours of the Mark, and on a golden cloth in its middle Théoden King's armour and weapons were placed, cleaned and polished, and arranged in a way to resemble the body of the warrior. For a moment she stared, not certain about her own feelings. Her brain told her that she could not really have expected her uncle's body to be still laid out an entire week after his death, but her heart found it difficult to cope with the mere symbols of his authority. True, there was nothing more fitting as token for the fearless leader of the Eorlingas than his gear, but strangely enough it reminded her in an uncanny way of the empty shell of a crayfish.

"His body is at the embalmers, my lady, as according to Gondorean custom the bodies of the nobles are embalmed." She looked up at the Steward's hushed remark, and he must have read the unspoken question in her eyes, for he shook his head. "I would rather advise against seeking him out. Try to remember him as you knew him, Éowyn, for what you find here is only the king, the token of the realm, and not the man who was close to your heart." She shuddered, and without a word she turned to leave the hall.

"Steady, my lady." The Steward's low voice reached her ear and she felt his hand softly touching her elbow. "Don't let cold stone be what you remember of Minas Tirith's Citadel. Come, Éowyn, let me show you something that might lighten your heart and give both of us a rest from what is pressing in on us."

Looking up, she met his gaze. Grey eyes, filled with care and understanding – so familiar and soothing and yet making her uncomfortable, as if they could look into her head and heart and read her most secret thoughts and emotions.

**ooo**

Soon they were standing in a paved yard, surrounded by multi-storied buildings on three sides while the fourth consisted of a high wall of the same white stone as the buildings. Large windows opened into the yard, some of them sporting small balconies with wrought-iron railings, but most of them were closed with richly carved wooden shutters. The yard itself was impeccably clean and orderly and the profound silence was only interrupted by the elderly servant who now came scuttling back with a large key ring which he handed to the Steward. He dismissed the servant and then crossed the yard to the small door set into the wall and unlocked it. With a screech that hinted at long disuse the door swung open, and the Steward motioned to her invitingly. Before she could follow his invitation though, her two guards stepped forwards, gazing through the opened door searchingly. Éowyn made a mental note to find out whom she had to _thank_ for her watchful shadows - Elfhelm in his attempt to point out the honour and importance of Eorl's House, or her overprotective brother who still thought of her as his little sister, no matter what deeds she had done in battle. Anyway, they did not seem to have spotted anything suspicious, for they stepped aside to let her pass.

Walking through the door, Éowyn found herself in a garden, approximately the same size as the yard. But where the yard war plane and paved, here boulders and beams had been arranged to form differing levels, creating the impression of a much larger space than it actually was. Niches and ledges in the wall held flowerpots of different size and material while others hung on finely worked chains from girders below the windows. There were not many flowers blossoming yet, but all kinds of different foliage sprouted everywhere, leaving no doubt what this place would look like in but a few weeks. A narrow gravel path meandered through the garden, side by side with a swiftly flowing rivulet, which in some places formed small, shallow pools, before the water swashed over the rim to continue on its way meandering amongst the flowerbeds. The different terraces were accentuated by shrubs and smallish trees, most of them still bare but with buds ready to burst.

The Steward hesitated and then turned to her apologetically. "I'm afraid this is not exactly what I meant to show you, my lady. I had not realised that the garden still is so barren."

Éowyn shook her head emphatically. "But it isn't for one who has eyes to see. Look at the buds everywhere, the new sprouts reaching for the sun. And what about the different kinds of mosses that edge the water? And those ferns there, ready to unfold? No, my lord, there might be few blossoms yet, but just look at that tree over there. Its buds are about to open, and already one can see that the blossoms will be pink."

His gaze attentively following her pointing hand, the Steward smiled. "You are right. It is just that my memories of this garden differ so much from its present state. My father had it set up for my mother, having seen the prince's garden in Dol Amroth. This certainly is but a minor copy of it, much smaller and lacking the ancient trees, but my mother loved it, and one of the few things I remember about her is her sitting in the shade of that bower, her smile as sweet as the smell of the roses around her." He sighed. "How she loved these roses! Father had the best brought from Imloth Melui, and I'll never forget the summer mornings when the scent would rise from the garden below, floating into my room through the open window..."

"There are roses from Imloth Melui in the garden of Edoras, too. Thengel King had them planted for his queen, Morwen of Lossarnach, and they truly are wonderful, though Théodred assured me they are but a pale reflection of the splendour of that valley. He told me about riding through it on his way to visit Morwen after her return to Lossarnach." How enthusiastic Théodred's face had been that sunny afternoon in the garden below Meduseld when he had told her about that journey in his youth, years before the shadow began to fall on the Golden Hall. "He said the scent had been that prominent in the air that it had literally soaked their hair and garment and it had still been traceable in the evening." He had never seen the valley again, never had had the leisure for such journeys, his duty as heir to the throne of the Mark binding him more and more to grim and everlasting struggle. She sighed. "It was the only time he travelled together with Boromir through Gondor."

She felt the Steward stiffen beside her and angrily bit her lip. _Fool! _How could she have let her guard down like that? Had not Théodred himself warned her to be circumspect, especially towards anyone from Gondor? Not that she would ever understand Gondorean attitudes. Had not both, Théodred and Boromir, fulfilled their duty to their Houses and peoples? Had not both been accomplished warriors, acknowledged leaders, devoted to their tasks? How could anyone grudge them the comfort they found in each other's company?

"It's nearly twenty years now, and I still remember..." The Steward's voice was soft, thoughtful as if he was rather speaking to himself. He hesitated a moment, but then he turned, looking her straight in the eye. "Prince Théodred's friendship meant a lot to my brother, much more than I could fathom then, and his esteem and devotion lasted through all those years despite the distance between them."

Circumspect! The Steward certainly was schooled in matters of policy, but his pleading gaze spoke a different language than his careful words. She wondered how much he knew about his brother's ways, but he must have loved him dearly, that much she could clearly comprehend. And what was at stake anyway? Théodred and Boromir were dead, and who knew how many days they themselves still had. Slowly she inclined her head.

"Let me assure you that his feelings were truly reciprocated and there never was anyone who took Boromir's place in Théodred's heart." Looking up she saw an expression of utter relief flit across the Steward's features, before he took her hand, raising it to his lips.

"Thank you, my lady. To know that surely eases my heart."

There was no need to say more, and as they followed the path through the walled garden, accompanied by the murmur of the rivulet, Éowyn could not help the soothing feeling that rose within her. So different they were, and yet she could feel he tried to understand. Tried with such a sincerity it made her heart ache, and for the first time since the battle on the Pelennor she wished they had more time.

* * *

**Annotations:**

**Imloth Melui: **Sindarin: "sweet flower-valley"; a valley in Lossarnach, mentioned by Ioreth in "The Return of the King".

**almond paste: **What I describe is some kind of **marzipan, **a sweet that was seen as a kind of remedy in the Middle Ages. Apart from other indications it was believed to enhance virility (I just couldn't resist. ;-D). And as always: PM me, and I'll send you the recipe.

* * *

Thanks go to everyone who supported me and especially to Lady **Bluejay** who helped me with the language.


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